


Dans la Même Direction

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [62]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Candlewax kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, France - Freeform, Grieving, Holiday, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Recovery, Romance, Sex, Sick Sherlock, kilt kink, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John take a holiday in Frontignan following the events in The Grass Is Greener.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction."  
> -Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
> 
> (Being in love is not looking at one another, but looking together in the same direction.)

* * *

John was only a little surprised when Sherlock got sick.

He'd been half expecting it – almost as soon as the detective had stopped working on the McKinney case, the stress he'd been putting on his body with too little food and sleep and too much adrenaline caught up with him. John wasn't unfamiliar with this; he saw it regularly at the surgery, and had seen it often enough in the army as well.

He woke up in the middle of the night with Sherlock's skin burning up against his. The detective was shaking and sleeping fitfully, shifting restlessly against the sheets and murmuring snatches of incoherent sentences. John reached out and turned on the lamp nearest to him, squinting in the sudden light. Sherlock groaned and blinked himself awake as John rolled over, grey eyes were bright and somewhat glassy. John pressed the back of his left hand against Sherlock's forehead and each of his cheeks while Sherlock watched him, looking miserable. John hated to wake him, but he needed to get some fluids into him and take his temperature.

He was running a low-grade fever, nothing serious. John fetched some ibuprofen and a glass of water, helping Sherlock drink slowly before smoothing a cool flannel on Sherlock's forehead. His hair was damp around his temples and plastered to his skin.

"Go back to sleep," John murmured. "It'll help."

Sherlock gave an exhausted nod and his eyes drifted shut again. John checked the clock before turning the light off – just a little after one-thirty in the morning on Wednesday. He'd been home for a day and a half, and now he was on double duty as a physician, although Sherlock wouldn't be too hard to care for. The virus would run its course; it was just a matter of keeping him drinking liquids and eating whatever he could.

In the morning, John set up the sofa so that Sherlock could sleep there as easily as he could in the bed. The doctor piled it with pillows and blankets and put a box of tissues on the small table and a dustbin for the waste next to the couch. He stocked their fridge with ginger ale and made sure to leave a can open on the kitchen counter at all times to lose its fizz. Sherlock didn't like the carbonation and wouldn't drink it otherwise. He actually tried to, for John's sake, but John saw him fighting not to gag.

"I know you're trying," John said, crouching down beside the sofa where Sherlock was curled on his side, half-hidden beneath the blankets, his hair a dark smear against the white pillowcases and his pale skin. John ran a hand into his husband's damp curls and Sherlock closed his eyes. He hadn't lost the circles rimming his eyes – if anything, they were deeper, almost purple, like he'd been bruised. "But you don't have to drink something you can't stand for me. It won't help. I'll let it go flat and make you some tea in the meantime."

Sherlock nodded once, a tired movement. By the time John came back with the tea, his husband had fallen asleep again, pale lips parted slightly, features relaxed. John left the tea on the small end table, along with a small glass pitcher of orange juice. Before leaving for work, he enlisted Mrs. Hudson's help to check on Sherlock periodically and make sure he had enough to drink throughout the day.

The detective spent the day asleep on the sofa and the following night asleep in their bed. At first, he'd tried to insist that he sleep upstairs so John wouldn't get sick, too, but John had vetoed the idea. He had a strong immune system and rarely got sick – and he lived in the same flat. It didn't much matter that they were sleeping in the same bed.

Besides, they'd spent enough time sleeping apart recently and John wasn't keen on doing so again. It wasn't particularly restful for him, but he also knew it helped for Sherlock to have the additional body heat when the fever gave him the chills. He curled up against John and the doctor would wrap himself around the trembling detective. It made it easier for Sherlock to sleep, which was what he desperately needed.

But the low fever and the chills persisted for four days and he developed a cough that threatened to settle into his chest. John's plan to force Sherlock to eat heavy, calorie rich foods gave way to chicken broth, toast, and weak tea. Sherlock ate whenever John made him, but he always did so slowly and couldn't finish his meals. John kept a sharp eye on that, but he knew the difference between someone who wasn't eating because he didn't want to and someone who wasn't eating because he couldn't.

What concerned John more was that with the fever suppressing his appetite, Sherlock lost two more pounds. That brought him down to eight and a half pounds underweight and he looked alarmingly thin. His pyjamas hung off of his pale frame and John wondered if his clothing would fit properly when he was well enough to dress again. He'd have to start cooking heavy food when the detective's appetite went back to normal. And getting a lot more take away.

On Friday afternoon, John stopped on his way home from work and bought a sturdy and simple gold chain. He took Sherlock's wedding ring and made him wear it around his neck, worried about how easily it slid from his finger. Sherlock hadn't had any extra weight to begin with – now he looked about the same as he had coming home from the hospital after the crash, minus the bruises, cuts and the cast. Sherlock didn't like being asked to wear the ring around his neck but consented. He slept with his left hand curled around it.

John sometimes slept with Sherlock during the day, or at least lay with him while the detective slept. After finishing his errands Saturday morning, he managed to arrange them on the sofa so that Sherlock was snuggled on top of him under the mass of blankets. John stroked Sherlock's hair and back, watching his sleeping husband's face, trying to find some hint of colour in there. Sherlock was still too pale and too bruised looking around the eyes. He was sleeping too much – of course, since he rarely slept at all, any increase seemed drastic. It was too hot with Sherlock and all of the blankets on top of him, but John didn't care.

He settled one hand on Sherlock's hip and let the other one stroke Sherlock's back slowly. Sherlock's lips were slightly parted and his breath was warm on John's face. His hair tickled John's skin and the doctor was suddenly aware of how close they were. He shifted himself slightly, drawing one leg up alongside Sherlock's hip, and wished that his husband wasn't sick.

It had been almost a whole month since they'd had sex, he realized. He missed it terribly but argued with his body that now was hardly the time. Sherlock was ill and fast asleep. Even if he weren't sleeping, as sick as he was, it was unlikely to be pleasurable for him.

"Stop looking at me, I can't sleep," Sherlock mumbled and John's lips stretched into a smile.

"You were sleeping fine a few minutes ago," John whispered.

"You're looking too loudly," Sherlock murmured and his eyes fluttered open. He met John's gaze and the doctor was glad to see that his eyes were clearer and his gaze sharper. There was less fatigue in his expression as well and the faintest of quirk at the edges of his lips that was reminiscent of the Sherlock John knew and loved. He put the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead and was pleased to feel that it was significantly cooler than it had been that morning.

"Your fever's going down," John commented. Sherlock sighed and shifted restlessly and John winced.

"Careful," the doctor admonished. Sherlock just huffed and settled down again but kept his eyes open. John watched him carefully – they'd spent a lot of time the past four days curled up together, mostly because it made Sherlock feel better. But they hadn't done a lot of talking other than Monday evening and part of Tuesday. In a way, John was glad to get some space from it – he didn't want to hash it out endlessly any more than Sherlock did, but they couldn't avoid it forever. He had no desire to fall back into old patterns and let this happen all over again.

"I booked two weeks off at the beginning of September," John said. Sherlock tilted his head enough to meet John's eyes.

"Did you?" he asked. His voice was still tired, but less so.

John nodded.

"I want to go to Frontignan."

At this, Sherlock tensed slightly as John expected he would. He dropped his eyes and traced an absent pattern on John's chest with his fingertips.

"Are you all right with that?" John asked. Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then stopped his tracery and splayed his palm on John's chest.

"I'm not concerned with memories of my mother, John," he said and John watched his husband intently, trying to evaluate if that were true. "Not entirely, at any rate." He hesitated, then exhaled slowly. John could feel the warmth of his breath through his cotton shirt.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed again.

"John, if we go away and have a holiday, we will have to come back eventually. You'll have to go back to work. I'll have to go back to work. It may seem relaxing while we're gone, but our lives are here."

John nodded.

"You're worried it will seem easy there and harder back here," he said.

Sherlock nodded in reply. John combed his fingers absently through his husband's hair. It needed to be washed and was oily, but he didn't care. Sherlock would probably be able to manage a shower today without feeling exhausted afterwards and without risk of falling asleep standing up and cracking his head on the tiles or the tub. John had made him change pyjamas once a day, so at least his clothing was fresh. He'd even consented to give Sherlock a sponge bath once. Sherlock had muttered unhappily about that until he'd dozed off part way through.

"We'll just have to be aware of that," John said. "I think we could use the holiday. If we don't expect things to be perfect and relaxing when we get back, then we're being realistic. But the time away would do us good, I think."

Sherlock considered that for a few minutes, then nodded slowly.

"Are you sure?" John asked. "We could go somewhere else if you want. If it's too soon."

"No," Sherlock replied, frowning slightly. "I have no desire to go somewhere else and stay with strangers. It's my holiday home, too, John, not just my mother's."

"All right," John said, pressing his lips into Sherlock's messy hair. "I'll book our flights later today."

Sherlock nodded again and then closed his eyes. John stroked his hair until the detective fell back asleep. He lay with his husband, content to do so, feeling more confident about things than he had in a long time. It was nice to simply watch Sherlock sleep without needing to worry about his health. John knew Sherlock was right – they would eventually both be back at work and their normal lives would resume. But they both knew what had to change in their normal lives and John thought a holiday to get that started was just what they needed.

He smiled to himself and closed his own eyes, dozing off for a bit, enjoying the enforced laziness of a late Saturday morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock waited until John had left to shower and dress properly. He'd encouraged John to go out when Tricia had rung and asked him to have lunch with her and Josephine. Sherlock didn't want Tricia coming over just yet – he had a strong suspicion she was still displeased with him and that she may have a quiet word or two when she next caught him alone or out of John's earshot. But he also wanted his husband to do things that John considered part of his normal life. Sherlock needed to go see Mycroft anyhow and wanted to do so alone. The prospect was unpleasant, but it had been a week since he'd last seen his brother, and Mycroft had been fast asleep when Sherlock and Sandra had delivered the case files to his hospital room.

Since then, Mycroft had been released to Angela's care, which was astonishing in itself. He couldn't imagine Mycroft submitting to being cared for by someone who wasn't a professionally detached doctor or nurse. Nor could he really imagine Angela doing all the necessary chores that came with nursing someone who couldn't look after himself. It was just as well Sherlock had no interest in their relationship – he was unlikely to get any sort of satisfactory explanation for any of it.

The primary purpose for getting John to leave, however, was so that the doctor couldn't watch him dress. Sherlock knew John had seen him unclothed during the past several days – he'd given Sherlock a sponge bath when the sweat from the fever became too repulsive to bear but the idea of standing in the shower remained too exhausting. Sherlock had evaluated himself critically that morning before getting in the shower and understood why John was displeased. He'd been aware that he'd lost weight but had considered it unimportant. John always harped on these sorts of things, but Sherlock could admit now that John's concern was well warranted.

He disliked the way he looked – it reminded him far too much of how he'd looked after being released from the hospital following the crash. Only now he was pale all over, not a patchwork of blues and blacks and purples and reds.

His clothes didn't fit, which didn't surprise him. He stood in front of the mirror that hung on the back of their bedroom door and glared at his reflection. He looked like a child trying on his father's clothing.

But he had nothing else. John's clothing was out of the question – not only were the trousers too short, but John's waist was thicker than his own even at the best of times. He was broader in the shoulders, too, and so his shirts were always slightly too large for Sherlock. As much as John enjoyed seeing Sherlock in his shirts and nothing else, the detective felt that was best confined to their flat.

He sighed and tightened the belt on his trousers so that they at least rested somewhat more comfortably on his hips. He looked away from his reflection then, toward the bed, and felt a stab of discomfort. What would John think of him naked? Yes, John had seen him without clothing in order to help him bathe, but that had been for practical medical purposes. John was a doctor – he was good at disassociating himself from his patients. Sherlock ignored the knowledge that John was less inclined to separate himself from Sherlock when taking care of him medically. He'd been ill and John had been tending to him. That was all there had been to it.

And they hadn't had a chance to do anything more than sleep in their bed. Initially, Sherlock had been reluctant to do anything more and he'd sensed that John was wavering between desire and uncertainty. Sherlock had no inclination to force the issue when neither of them was sure about it. Then he'd managed to fall ill – he was still displeased by the weakness of his body. He hadn't at all consented to be sick and yet his body had succumbed regardless.

With an agitated sigh, he threw his jacket on the bed and flopped down, staring at his legs extended in front of him. His wedding ring felt heavy on its chain around his neck and he tugged on it irately, narrowing his eyes.

Reaching a decision, Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent Angela a text message indicating that he would come by the following day in the afternoon rather than today. He gave no explanation and didn't care what she made of it. He considered Angela a rare neutral quantity – certainly she had some affection for Mycroft but she seemed to have no real agenda when it came to Sherlock. It was so odd for someone Mycroft knew not to be overbearing that he actually appreciated her for it.

She responded with instructions to come after two in the afternoon, as Mycroft normally napped following lunch now. At one time, the idea of Mycroft being so reduced and susceptible would have given Sherlock a good deal of smug pleasure.

That was before someone had attempted to assassinate him.

Sherlock put the phone on the bedside table and changed out of his clothing into his pyjamas and dressing gown. At least in these, he felt less conspicuously thin, even if he did feel lethargic while wearing them. John had taken good care of his pyjamas, laundering the cotton ones regularly and refusing to let Sherlock wear the silk ones while he was ill and sweating due to the fever.

He took his phone and wandered back into the living room, flopping into his chair. He drew his legs up and set the phone on the arm of the chair, glaring at it. Tomorrow would be an unpleasant day all around. He'd arranged to meet Sam for lunch – he knew he owed the Interpol agent a proper apology, as much as he disliked the idea of giving one. He had intended to do this sooner, but he'd been sick. Sherlock had asked John to call Sam and explain the situation and John had done so. Then he'd followed it up by one of his I-am- _not_ -getting-involved looks and Sherlock was on his own after that.

He was angry about this too – both at himself and at the situation. It was scarcely his fault Maxen Brace had been pushed off a bridge to his death. But it _was_ his fault that he'd failed to consider Sam's reaction to it. He'd neglected to properly evaluate the circumstances and – more frustratingly – he had no data on Sam's current state of mind. The last time he'd seen the agent, Sam had been angry and had left him alone with Sandra. He'd been sleeping poorly – or not at all – and had clearly been unwell. Sherlock hoped that a week would have resolved the issue.

Then he would have to visit Mycroft. That would be fraught with all sorts of petty unspoken admonishments. Sherlock wondered if perhaps he could just send Anthea a lengthy text to relay to his brother. After all, Mycroft was hardly in a position to come round to their flat. This cheered Sherlock slightly – his brother couldn't get up the stairs, and it would be some time before he could, which meant that their flat was unlikely to be invaded.

Sherlock dismissed his irritation – both Sam and Mycroft could be dealt with. He was, he had argued to John, capable of taking care of himself. Mycroft had never fully believed this and probably never would, but Sam seemed to, at least sometimes. Sherlock conceded in the privacy of his own mind that he was equally as inclined to think Sam needed someone to mind him. He had a tendency to get himself in trouble and fall of bridges.

The detective fiddled with the chain around his neck. After tomorrow's unpleasantness, there would only be four days until they left for Frontignan. Sherlock had managed to stop John from booking flights on a commercial airline and had demanded Mycroft fly them out on the jet. Surprisingly, Mycroft had agreed with no reservations and no attempts to negotiate something in return. Sherlock hoped his brother had no intentions of joining them, but he had difficulties imagining that Mycroft and Angela were the "family holiday" type. Besides, David would have to return to school the following week.

It was strange to think that Mycroft had his son's academic schedule to consider. Almost as strange as hearing David refer to Mycroft as "Dad". It was disconcerting to imagine that someone would depend on Mycroft for care and safety. Sherlock certainly never had, although it had been provided against his wishes.

He fiddled with the chain around his neck again then growled, reaching up to unhook it. As he did so, he heard the front door open. He was surprised – he hadn't realized how much time had passed since John had left. One hour and forty-three minutes, according to the time on his phone. But he hadn't showered immediately and he was still moving more slowly than normal.

John's tread on the stairs was familiar and balanced – he wasn't carrying anything so he hadn't stopped to do errands. But given the short time in which he'd been gone, this wasn't surprising. He was moving at a normal pace, so he was not feeling tired, which was good. He'd slept in a fair amount that morning, which Sherlock assumed was needed after a week of having a patient at home as well as patients at work. The key turned in the lock and John swung the door open, looking immediately surprised to see him. His brown eyes raked over Sherlock with a quick medical evaluation – he was checking for signs of a fever again.

"I thought you were going to see Mycroft?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock replied.

John's brow furrowed slightly.

"Okay," he said, nodding. "Are you feeling all right?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly, then shook his head. "The fever's not come back, John," he clarified.

The doctor toed off his shoes and set his keys and wallet aside, then crossed the room, settling down in front of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then unfolded his legs, bringing them to rest on either side of John's body so that John was sitting between his knees. The doctor raised his arms, resting them on Sherlock's thighs, absently tracing slow circles with his thumbs. It was a calming motion but Sherlock still felt snappish.

"What's the matter?" John asked.

Sherlock slid the ring from the gold chain and put it on his finger. It went on far too easily and was loose. If he wore it now, there was a good chance he could lose it in the shower or while washing his hands. It was unlikely to come off on his dry skin but he did not want to risk it.

John nodded.

"You'll put the weight back on," he said in an assured voice.

Sherlock snorted.

"Before Friday?"

"Eight and a half pounds in five days? I doubt it, Sherlock, even if all you ate was sweets and fatty foods. It doesn't need to be by Friday."

Sherlock huffed, looking away, leaving the ring on his finger.

"We're taking a holiday in France, John," he said, trying to keep his tone from becoming too abrupt.

"Yes, I know," John said. "It's– do you need to buy new clothing? You have time before then. I know it won't be up to your usual standard, but if you plan on regaining the weight, then you won't need the new clothes for long."

"If I plan on regaining the weight?" Sherlock asked, locking his gaze with John's again. "Of course I plan on regaining the weight, John! Otherwise, why would you–"

He cut himself off, biting his lower lip, his eyes darting away again.

"Otherwise why would I what?" John asked.

Sherlock crossed his arms and tried to pull his legs up onto the chair but John pressed down with his arms, keeping Sherlock pinned. Sherlock slouched down as much as he could, huffing another displeased sigh.

"Otherwise, why would you find me attractive?" Sherlock muttered, narrowing his eyes to glare at the entrance to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose. He kept his gaze turned resolutely away from John – or at least tried to. The sound of the doctor chuckling made him look back quickly.

"I fail to see why this is so funny," Sherlock said in a cold voice. John dropped his head and shook it, still grinning.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just– have you looked at yourself in a mirror?"

"Yes!" Sherlock retorted. "Yes, I have, John! I spent twenty minutes looking at myself in the mirror before deciding that I would be better off not leaving the flat! I look like– I look repulsive."

John's smile faded fast and he jerked his head back up. He reached up quickly and put a hand on Sherlock's face, running his thumb along Sherlock's bottom lip.

"No," he said softly. "No, Sherlock, never. You've lost weight and you've been sick and yes, it shows. But– do you remember what you said to me last week?"

"I said a number of things, John," Sherlock sighed. "You'll have to specify."

"You said I was beautiful. Well. You're beautiful, too."

Sherlock sighed and tried to turn his face away but John's grip tightened on his cheek and chin.

"No, don't," John said. "You are. You may not feel it right now, but given everything – the case, me, the fever – I don't blame you. But you are. You really are."

He pushed himself into a crouch and leaned forward, eyes meeting Sherlock's, holding them with a steady warmth.

"You're worried I won't find you attractive or that I'll be tsking about how thin you are, right?"

Sherlock sighed, eyes darting away for a moment, then back. He gave a curt nod. A proper diet was important to John – it had to be, otherwise he wouldn't spend so much time harping on it. It therefore followed that Sherlock's physical appearance based on said proper diet was also important.

"I am worried – or I was," John said. "But you're eating better and if you keep it up, you'll be fine. And I don't find you unattractive."

"You've only seen me unclothed once this whole time," Sherlock muttered unhappily. He frowned at the sudden light of mirth in John's eyes at this.

"Well, we can fix that," John murmured. Before Sherlock could react to the suggestion, he felt the soft touch of lips on his own, slightly parted. His eyes fell closed without him intending them to and he kissed back, parting his lips, feeling John's tongue across his bottom lip, across his teeth. Sherlock opened his mouth and John's tongue slid over his, then along the roof of his mouth. The sudden heat shocked him and he pulled back minutely. John broke the kiss, looking at him. His breathing was already faster than normal and his eyes were bright.

"If you don't want to, just say so," John murmured, his breath warm against Sherlock's lips. The detective gave an irritated nod – he knew that. That had never been in doubt the entire time they'd been partners.

"I want to," Sherlock replied levelly and saw the smile that twitched on John's lips and touched his eyes. The doctor reached down and snagged Sherlock's hands. A subtle movement of John's thumb pushed Sherlock's wedding band a bit higher up on his finger, away from his middle knuckle.

"Come on," John said softly, tugging on Sherlock's hands. The detective unfolded to standing in the space John made for him and let himself be led into the bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

John stepped aside slightly and shut the door behind Sherlock. He eyed his husband up and down, noting how tense Sherlock was – he was standing a bit too straight and his jaw was tight. He drew a deep breath; obviously he'd noted John picking up on the tension and John twitched his eyebrows up.

_Just because he's worked himself into being sick doesn't mean he's any less observant_ , John reminded himself.

"Sit down," he said, gesturing at the bed. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him – John didn't like the fatigue that clung to his features. He supposed it was better than manic energy, but there was a middle ground. John just hadn't seen it in too long. He'd quite like to see it again, actually. It had taken awhile to find in the beginning. He didn't want to go through having to rediscover it all over again.

He could understand why Sherlock was feeling anxious and tetchy – this wasn't just about his appearance. The detective wasn't used to dealing with a number of emotional issues at once. If he had his way, he'd never deal with any at all – _well, any unpleasant ones_ , John thought. Barring that, the next best option was to compartmentalize them and have them occur sequentially, preferably with large gaps in between. But there was a jumble of problems being heaped on him all at once and Sherlock had never been at all equipped to deal with that sort of thing. He probably had no idea where to start, which problem to pick to solve first. And, of course, he'd want to solve it like he solved a case. Narrow it down, eliminate options that weren't viable, and then apply the solution that would work. It was a brilliant way for dealing with mysteries, but not so much people.

_Although it would be nice if there was some instant fix_ , John thought. He understood that desire, at least. He didn't want to be having marital problems any more than Sherlock did.

There was one thing that always helped anyway. John stepped toward the bed and Sherlock spread his knees again so that John could stand between them. He raised his left hand and wove it into the detective's dark hair, settling it on the back of Sherlock's head and rubbed his thumb in slow circles against his skin.

Sherlock made an indefinable noise at the back of his throat and dropped his head into John's hand so that the weight rested against John's open palm. Sherlock's eyes fell closed as John watched as the tension started to ebb from his features and his muscles. His breathing slowed and deepened and his spine relaxed so that his back and shoulders slumped somewhat. After a minute or two, he let his head nod forward, the muscles in his neck relaxing more completely. John kept his hand where it was, following Sherlock's movements. He watched the tendons in Sherlock's hands loosen and relax on the duvet, pale skin against the dark fabric. The loose wedding band gleamed in the sunlight that drifted through the windows.

John felt himself unwinding, too, tension he hadn't even been aware of carrying dissolving slowly from his shoulders and the back of his neck. He felt something inside of him ease and some unnoticed weight in his chest seemed to lift. It became easier to breathe and he felt his breathing match Sherlock's unconsciously, without any effort. John deliberately slowed his breathing more and Sherlock did the same.

How long had it been since they'd just been together without worrying about anything? John could scarcely remember. The last time they'd been truly intimate had been when Mycroft had been in the hospital and they'd been awaiting news, but that had been fraught with tension and uncertainty. Sherlock had been on the verge of snapping then, pulled in so many directions, exhausted by the case and the sudden and utterly undeniable possibility that he might lose his brother.

Sherlock let his neck relax more so that the top of his head was resting against John's stomach. This meant his nose and forehead were pushed lightly against John's belt, which was somewhat distracting for John and probably a little uncomfortable for Sherlock. The detective didn't seem to care – the sensation of John's thumb making slow circles on his scalp would outweigh almost anything else. And the doctor could control himself for a little while longer. It had been a month. If he'd waited this long, he could wait a bit more. The thought made a smile tug at the corners of his lips. The faint chuckle that slipped past Sherlock's lips told John that his smile hadn't gone unnoticed even if Sherlock could not see it. Probably some shift in the muscles of his abdomen or hand, John thought, his smile growing a bit more. He glanced down at the mop of curly hair then ran his right hand through it before resting it on the back of Sherlock's neck. The muscles there were looser than they had been but still held too much tension. John kept up the slow circles with his left thumb and traced the fingers of his right hand along Sherlock's jaw to his chin. He applied a bit of upward pressure and Sherlock raised his head, letting it fall back loosely on his neck.

"You'd better not be planning on falling asleep," John commented. Sherlock's lips stretched into a smile and he opened his eyes. The light in them was enough of a reply.

"Up," John commanded, stepping back and Sherlock stood, his movements sinuous, almost feline. He looked down at John, cocking an eyebrow almost challengingly, and John just raised his own eyebrows in return. Sherlock's smile grew and he leaned down, catching John's lips. John opened his mouth, unable to contain a small moan when Sherlock's tongue slipped over his.

He found the tie of Sherlock's dressing gown and undid it then ran his hands up Sherlock's arms to push the silk from his shoulders. It pooled on the floor at Sherlock's feet, a puddle of dark blue. He was wearing a pair of forest green silk pyjamas – it was a colour John loved on him and, for a moment, John remembered the dark green silk shirt Sherlock had been wearing while combing the wreckage for Mycroft. It had been ruined. He'd have to remember to have Sherlock by a new one.

He undid the buttons and let the shirt fall to join the dressing gown, then ran his hands over Sherlock's chest, watching the contrast of his own skin against his husband's. He was nowhere near as tanned as he'd once been, of course, but he would always be darker than that startling alabaster. He smiled when he thought that even when they spent two weeks in the Mediterranean sun, Sherlock was unlikely to change colour, unless he forgot sunscreen and burnt.

He traced the fingertips of his left hand along the bottom of Sherlock's ribs. They were more prominent now and the image made his smile fade. He knew better than to try not to let it show – Sherlock would notice regardless and if John attempted to hide it, it would only make Sherlock defensive. Sherlock watched him seriously now, the smile gone, the light in his eyes somewhat dimmed.

"Thank you," John said, raising his head, meeting Sherlock's eyes. There was a brief flash of bewilderment in Sherlock's features.

"For what?" the detective asked.

"For dropping the case," John said, splaying his left hand so that his fingers rested on Sherlock's ribs and his thumb just against his abdomen. "And not just for me. I mean that. For you, too. I don't want to lose you."

Sherlock exhaled deeply and slowly.

"Nor I you," he said and his voice was verging toward hard, but not out of anger or resentment, John thought. Sherlock was probably still unhappy about John walking out. John didn't blame him – but also didn't blame himself for that. He'd done what he needed to do to keep himself together. But he could admit he should have at least sent a text message or an email or even made himself call once.

He hooked his fingers into the elastic of Sherlock's pyjama pants and pulled lightly, then let them fall to the floor to join the rest of the clothing. Sherlock stepped out of the pool of silk, kicking lightly to dislodge himself from the pants.

"Lie down on your stomach," John said. Sherlock smirked but John ignored him. Sherlock settled on the bed, adjusting the duvet so he could lie on it comfortably, crossing his arms on his pillow and turning his head enough so that he could see John. The doctor stripped off his own shirt and tossed it on top of Sherlock's pyjamas, then circled the bed and crouched down in front of Sherlock's bedside table. Sherlock turned his head a bit more, still watching, the gleam back in his grey eyes. John twitched his eyebrows up and slipped his wedding ring off, putting it on the bedside table, then pulled out the bottle of massage oil that Sherlock kept in the small cabinet space.

The detective gave him a mildly surprised look – he hadn't been expecting that and John was usually on the receiving end of the massages because of his shoulder. Sherlock was less partial to them – not because he didn't enjoy them, John thought, but because he'd rather be doing something instead of just lying there. John had no problems with lying and letting his husband work on his muscles, but Sherlock usually got agitated simply being still for so long. It sometimes amazed John – Sherlock could sit motionless for hours if he were working on a case and thinking, but if he was being asked to relax, he got antsy.

_Only him_ , John thought. He climbed onto the bed and settled on the backs of Sherlock's thighs. The detective twisted his head to look at him again, an amused expression on his face. John just gave him a slight smile and spilt some of the oil on his hands, chafing them together. Then he poured more into his left palm and rubbed his hands until they were slick and coated.

"Turn your head," he said. Sherlock gave a pleased little huff and buried his face in his pillow, keeping his head turned just enough to breathe. John shuffled forward a bit and pressed his hands at the base of Sherlock's spine. He stroked upward slowly, taking care not to go too deep, not while Sherlock's muscles were still cold. He didn't do this often, but he had it done to him on a fairly regular basis and he had an excellent knowledge of human anatomy. John worked in long, slow movements, warming Sherlock's muscles, feeling them relax and unwind under his hands. He used broad strokes up Sherlock's back, across his shoulders and down his arms, tugging on Sherlock's arms lightly to get him to drop them to his sides. John saw the ghost of a smile touch Sherlock's lips when he moved and he relaxed more, exhaling a deep sigh.

John switched to deeper movements then, starting at the base of Sherlock's spine and pushing upwards, pressing into the heels of his hands. Sherlock grunted softly then relaxed again and John eased up on the pressure minutely. He could feel the twinges and shifts in the his husband's muscles – there was a lot of stored tension there. John worked on it slowly, taking his time. He moved across Sherlock's mid back, under his shoulder blades, pulling out the stiffness bit by bit. He thought he could feel some residual tension from the day spent working with the search-and-rescue team as he worked his way between Sherlock's shoulders along his upper spine. John had felt it in his upper back and shoulders for a few days afterwards and he wasn't surprised that Sherlock had held onto it. He could remember exactly how Sherlock had looked that day, the numb shock that had kept him going, one piece of rubble at a time.

He remembered, too, how Sherlock had clung to him in the hospital, seeking reassurance without a word and without hesitation. John frowned to himself – he hadn't thought of it at the time, but Sherlock had been doing exactly what John had asked him to do. Requesting help when he needed it. He just needed to start doing it before things got so desperate.

He spent quite some time working on Sherlock's shoulders. John could feel the bones more prominently here but Sherlock's body softened as John worked out the knots. He'd put the weight back on fairly easily – if he'd taken it off so fast, it would come back quickly. Still, it was a bit shocking to feel how thin Sherlock really was, not just in his hands and feet. John had mostly ignored it while giving him the sponge bath a few days ago. He'd done so deliberately, knowing it wouldn't help to point it out while Sherlock was sick and unable to eat much.

When he worked up the back of Sherlock's neck to the base of his skull, Sherlock groaned, his hands twitching slightly. John pressed his thumbs into the junction of his neck and head and then slowly pushed them toward Sherlock's ears. Sherlock groaned again then exhaled slowly. John worked his fingertips into Sherlock's hair, massaging his scalp, earning a deep hum for his efforts. He smiled to himself – of course that was Sherlock's favourite, given how he felt about having the back of his head touched. He stayed there a few minutes, then tugged lightly on Sherlock's right earlobe and Sherlock's lips flickered into a smile. John shifted back a bit then and began to work on Sherlock's right arm, moving slowly, making sure to pull back onto his shoulder as well. Sherlock sighed, nuzzling his face deeper into the pillow, letting John manipulate his arm without resistance. It surprised John that Sherlock could do this given how fond he was of manipulating other people – both physically and mentally – and how reluctant he was to let himself go. But he'd never had the same reservations with John as he had with anyone else.

When John began working on Sherlock's right hand, the detective finally dozed off. John arched an eyebrow but this didn't come as much of a shock. He knew Sherlock was still tired from the past couple of weeks and he was a sucker for having his hands massaged, even if he didn't usually have the patience for anything else. The first time John had done that, Sherlock had watched in astonishment at the sensations, wincing occasionally as John worked out knots in his palms and the fleshy muscle beneath his thumb. The detective had said afterwards that it was immeasurably helpful in warming up his hands and relaxing them, which helped his violin playing.

He finished with Sherlock's left arm, taking off his wedding ring to do his hand and then putting it back on. It was still loose, but John didn't fuss with the chain now. Sherlock wasn't spending most of his time sleeping and would take care not to lose it. He didn't do the detective's legs or feet – Sherlock had complained about not liking the way it felt the first time John had tried it.

He shifted off of Sherlock carefully, watching his husband's face to make sure he didn't wake up. Sherlock stirred a bit, but only enough to settle down more and bring his right hand up to bunch into his pillow. John smiled slightly. He fetched a light blanket from their linen closet, since Sherlock was pinning their sheets and duvet under his body, and covered him with it to keep him from getting cold. As sick as he'd been and as thin as he was, he'd probably need the extra warmth even in the August heat.

John fixed himself some lunch and set aside leftovers for Sherlock for when he woke up. He ate, enjoying the tone of the temporary silence. This wasn't the strained silence he'd endured on the case or the exhausted silence of Sherlock sleeping off his illness. When he finished, he returned the plate to the kitchen before going back into the bedroom to change. It was a bit warm for what he chose to wear, but he didn't mind.

He settled on the bed beside his sleeping husband and read for awhile before fetching his book of crosswords and working on that. Sherlock slept for almost an hour before he shifted and stretched, murmuring a deep contented sound. John put his book away and leaned back on the headboard, watching with a half smile as Sherlock woke up, writhing lazily to get his blood moving again.

"You let me fall asleep," he murmured in an only mildly accusatory voice.

"Mm-hmm," John agreed. Sherlock cracked one eye open, managing to glare at him nonetheless. Then he opened his other eye and frowned.

"Bit warm for a jumper," he commented with a slight sniff.

"Yeah, well," John said. Sherlock propped himself on his forearms and shifted his gaze downward. His eyes widened and so did John's grin. The dark red jumper was one of Sherlock's favourites and happened to go quite well with John's kilt. He crossed his legs at the ankles, flexing his feet slightly, which in turn stretched the muscles in his calves beneath his off-white kilt hose.

The stunned expression on Sherlock's face was immediately replaced with lust and John's grin widened more.

"You'd better have opted for the traditional route this time," Sherlock growled, his voice low and rumbly. John raised his eyebrows.

"Why don't you find out?" he murmured. Sherlock tossed aside the blanket with which John had covered him and scrambled up, reaching for John at the same time. The doctor chuckled and grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him down onto his back. The detective caught him around the waist and pulled with surprising strength so that John collapsed onto him with a startled "oof!". Sherlock gave him a feral grin, running his hands up under the kilt, along the bare skin on the back of John's thighs and ass.

"Oh, well done," Sherlock whispered, his breath warm against John's ear as he kneaded his fingers skilfully into the dense muscle. John gasped and Sherlock gave a murmuring laugh, hooking his legs around the back of John's knees, pinning him in place.

"You do realize you don't get to remove any of that?" he asked.

"I think we'll manage," John replied and Sherlock grinned then caught him in a deep, demanding kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

There were times when John wished Sherlock and Mycroft got on a little better because he had to admit that travelling by private jet was far preferable than flying commercially. The flight from London to Montpellier was a short one, only seventy-five minutes, but it was nice to fly in luxury nonetheless and it saved Sherlock having to complain about not flying business class. The detective had sprawled out in the jet as per usual and John had enjoyed some of the expensive champagne Mycroft kept on board. When they'd arrived at Montpellier, there was a car waiting for them, making the rest of the trip – another forty-five minutes – smooth and hassle free.

The villa was unoccupied except for the small staff – it still seemed strange to John that the place was inhabited year round by people who were paid to take care of it. Of course Sherlock didn't think it was odd, but he'd grown up like this. They were welcomed warmly but without any overbearing fussing and when they went to their suite, there was a light tea of freshly baked bread, cheeses, fruit, and Frontignan Muscat waiting for them. They left their suitcases on the bed and John took the tray of food and wine out onto the private balcony. Sherlock was right behind him, but John didn't fail to note that he'd taken a moment to open his bag and find one of the tubes of lube they'd packed.

But at least Sherlock consented to eat first. They settled on the divan on the balcony that overlooked the Mediterranean. The villa was secluded, just outside of town and well sheltered from their nearest neighbours. They were on the second storey and the family wing of the house was utterly unoccupied at the moment. They had total privacy, which John appreciated. He knew from experience how comfortable the divan was and there was something about being outside but unseen with the smell of the salt air on the breeze that he particularly enjoyed.

He filled a plate for each of them while Sherlock poured the wine. John took his glass and settled down on the plush cushions, taking a moment to close his eyes and inhale. The breeze from the Mediterranean was warm but crisp and the evening air was the perfect temperature. The light wind stirred Sherlock's curls as he settled beside John and the doctor smiled.

He was glad he'd suggested this – a respite from London was just what they needed. He smiled to himself when he remembered a time when the idea of London had been the fantasy, back in the baking summer days and freezing winter nights in Afghanistan. But life was complicated no matter where one was, and London was particularly so right now.

The past week had been odd even by John's standards – and he had very different standards for "odd" after nearly seven years as Sherlock's partner. Even if things had been normal between the two of them, there was more going on than John was used to, and that was saying something.

On Monday, he'd come home to find Sherlock sulking in his chair, although the detective had immediately got up and tried to stop, but the agitated motions were a dead give away. John had no idea why Sherlock had thought it was a good idea to deal with Mycroft and an angry Sam in the same day. It wasn't as if Sherlock was any good at having people upset with him – not if they were people he cared about. Granted, Mycroft wasn't upset at all; just the opposite. John knew his brother-in-law was relieved that Sherlock had given up the case, but he also knew his husband felt defensive and uncertain about that. Combined with the fact that Sam was still upset – justifiably so, John thought – made for a fraught day for Sherlock.

They were two more situations that Sherlock wanted to avoid – or at least resolve immediately – and which he could not. John had let him sulk for awhile, knowing he needed it. It wasn't as if Sherlock was ever going to fully stop using that as a means of dealing with things, but it helped that he was trying. Eventually, John had told him it was probably best to let things lie for awhile. Both Mycroft and Sam would recover in their own ways. Occasionally John wondered if Sherlock deliberately picked messy relationships. His interactions with his brother had always been complicated and full of rancour, although John knew there was real love there, too – even if Sherlock was loath to admit it. And Sam – there were days when John wondered how Sherlock and Sam got on at all. They sometimes struck him as both being positively charged magnets. They shouldn't even be able to go near each other. But most of the time, they actually seemed to do all right. When they made each other angry, though, they didn't do it by halves.

Well, no one had ever claimed Sherlock was a simple person. John knew he wouldn't have it any other way, even now, even when things were complicated between them. Despite everything, it was never boring. But he was John's and John was his and that was really all that mattered.

They finished eating and put their plates aside, lingering over their wine. When John drained the last sip from his glass, the sun was slipping beneath the western horizon, turning the sea and the curve of land that joined it the horizon a deep crimson. Sherlock set his glass down then, even though he hadn't finished it. John pulled the light blanket from the back of the divan and spread it over them – they might have privacy, but he still liked having a bit of cover. And with the sun disappearing, it would get chilly enough, even by their London standards.

He held the blanket up and Sherlock settled under it, then snuggled against John's side, underneath his right arm. John slouched down a bit and Sherlock nuzzled his nose against John's neck, his breath ghosting across the sensitive spot on John's collar bone. The doctor shuddered slightly and felt Sherlock's lips stretch into a smile before they pressed lightly against his skin. John turned his head somewhat, just enough to feel Sherlock's hair against his cheek. He let his right hand drop, tracing his fingertips along Sherlock's arm, across the silk of his shirt and onto his skin, feeling goose bumps in the wake of his touch. Sherlock's left hand settled on John's right thigh and he began sketching light circles, drawing the counter of John's knee, then drifting upward before slipping back down. John spread his knees a bit, an open invitation, and Sherlock dragged his fingers up John's thigh. The sensation should have been barely discernable through the fabric of his jeans but he felt it jolt through him, straight to his groin. John exhaled slowly, moving his hand up to tug on Sherlock's curls.

The detective's lips traced up John's neck, fluttering over his pulse and John sighed again, a touch more sharply this time. He felt Sherlock's mouth whisper over his jaw and turned his head a bit more, meeting his husband's lips. Sherlock pushed himself up a bit, his hand moving farther up the inside of John's thigh and John spread his legs more in response. He shifted, trying to draw Sherlock's fingers up and in more, but Sherlock moved his hand maddening to the top of John's thigh, splaying his fingers across the denim.

He opened his mouth under John's, catching the doctor's soft moan as he ran his tongue across John's lower lip and then into his mouth, exploring slowly. John wound his right hand into Sherlock's hair, then twisted himself somewhat so that they were pressed together chest-to-chest and he could drag his left hand down the front of Sherlock's shirt to the waistband of his wool suit trousers. Sherlock purred as John undid his belt and unfastened his trousers. The purr changed to a sharp moan when John slid his hand into Sherlock's pants and stroked him lightly, teasingly.

Sherlock pulled out of their kiss and moaned again, his breath warm against John's lips. John drew his hand away, earning a desperate whimper that made him smile. He kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth then pushed Sherlock gently onto his back. The detective arched and John made quick work of Sherlock's trousers and underwear, pulling the blanket aside as Sherlock kicked off his clothing. Then the detective's dextrous fingers were undoing John's jeans, pulling down the zipper excruciatingly slowly, grinning when John gasped. He stopped, pressing his hand against John's erection through his jeans and John's hips bucked, the sensation making him gasp and drop his head against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock kissed his ear then undid his pants the rest of the way and John struggled out of them gracelessly, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt as he did so. He gave up on the blanket for a minute as Sherlock sat up long enough to free himself from his shirt and then strip John's from him.

"Pass me the lube," John said, settling them both under the blanket again carelessly, so that it more or less covered their legs. The night air felt good against his skin and he wanted to see Sherlock anyway. In the past several days, he'd put back a pound and a half – it wasn't much, but on him, it was a noticeable start.

Sherlock reached back and snagged the tube and John took it, sitting back between Sherlock's knees and snapping the cap open. He smeared some on his fingers, smirking at the hungry expression on Sherlock's face. John tucked the tube between the cushions on the back of the couch where he could reach it easily then leaned forward again, running his index and middle fingers down the middle of Sherlock's chest to his navel. Sherlock gasped softly at the sensation and John's grin grew predatory. He leaned up for a kiss at the same time he slid his fingers in. Sherlock moaned, the sound catching in John's mouth, and arched up into the contact. John lips twitched a bit into a smile but he didn't break the kiss. He stroked teasingly, taking his time, until Sherlock growled. The sound was low and dangerous in the growing dark and made John shudder. He curled the tips of his fingers and Sherlock gasped, pulling away from John's mouth sharply, throwing his head back. John grinned, dipping his face to nip Sherlock's neck and the detective shifted restlessly, his legs wrapping around John's to pin him in place. The doctor grinned again and dislodged himself to a protesting whimper.

He picked up the tube of lube again but Sherlock took it from him quickly, spreading it on his own palms before slicking John up. John exhaled hard, closing his eyes, resting his forehead against Sherlock's, his hips twitching in time with the slow strokes. He gave a quiet whimper of his own when Sherlock pulled his hands away, biting his lower lip to try and contain the sound. When this didn't work, he leaned down to bite Sherlock's lower lip instead and settled his hands on Sherlock's hips. John eased himself in and Sherlock groaned softly, wrapping his legs around John's again and folding his arm's around the doctor's back. He dug his fingertips into John's muscles and John felt the faintly cool touch of Sherlock's wedding band, which he was wearing all the time again now. Of course the detective figured out immediately that the sensation caused a light shudder down John's spine and he splayed his left hand on John's back. John sighed, nuzzling Sherlock's neck, and settled them into an easy rhythm that they could hold for awhile.

When Sherlock started to tremble, John picked up the pace. Sherlock's breath was coming in sharp-edged little gasps and he was biting his lip to keep himself quiet, which made John chuckle. He'd never worried about that before. _A fine time for modesty, naked and shagging on our balcony_ , he thought and then moaned when Sherlock's body constricted around him. John rode out Sherlock's orgasm then let himself go, gasping into Sherlock's neck, his fingers digging into his husband's hips. Sherlock tightened his hold on John, shudders still running through him, until John slumped against him with a deep gasp, breathing hard.

They lay entangled, their breathing gradually slowing, Sherlock tracing vague patterns on John's back. John tried to tell if he was spelling or drawing anything – he never could figure it out and never asked. He liked not knowing. Sometimes, though, John felt the sinuous curve of an "S" being traced out down his back and it made him smile. He felt it now and pressed a kiss into Sherlock's chest. If he traced a "J" into Sherlock's skin, would the detective know? John's smile grew – of course he would.

He reached back and dragged the blanket up. It had slid down and bunched over their knees, covering only their lower legs. John pulled it up and Sherlock snagged the bottom end with his dextrous toes, tugging it downward, making John chuckle. The detective smiled at him in the darkness then gave a contented little sigh. They adjusted their positions enough that they were lying on their sides, John's back to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock pinned him neatly as he normally did and it worked well – the couch was long enough for John to stretch out but not for Sherlock to do so. John smiled a sleepy and contented smile. They'd probably get cold later in the night and have to move inside, but he didn't mind. He drifted off to sleep, listening to Sherlock's breathing deepen at the same time, the salt tinged sea air stirring lightly around them.


	5. Chapter 5

John slept in, rising shortly before nine. Sherlock sat on the balcony, listening to the sounds of John moving around, staring out over the sea. John had seen him – that was the pause in the doctor's footsteps – but was unconcerned that he was outside. He did not seem to find it strange, nor did he have any real reason to. Sherlock heard the footsteps resume inside the bedroom, moving toward their suitcases, putting each of them on the solid oak luggage racks. The faint sound of one being unzipped told Sherlock that John was dressing – he wouldn't shower, not yet. When he was on holiday, he preferred to eat breakfast before showering. The kitchen would send up a tray when they called down for it – Sherlock had arranged that their breakfasts not be brought up at a specific time so that John could sleep as long as he wanted.

He chewed on his lower lip impatiently, resisting the urge to draw his feet up onto the couch and fold his arms over his stomach. John would accuse him of sulking. He drummed the fingers of his right hand impatiently against the arm of the couch, refusing to look round when the doors to the balcony clicked open and John stepped out. His faint footfalls indicated he was barefoot and the lack of the distinctive sound of denim brushing denim meant he wasn't wearing jeans.

"'Morning," John said.

Sherlock grunted.

There was a pause, then John circled the divan and glanced down at him. Sherlock kept his bare feet firmly planted on the stone balcony floor and his arms uncrossed – at least John couldn't say he was sitting in his sulking pose. He was wearing the dark green silk pyjamas that John loved so much, having put them on when he'd gotten up several hours before. John was now dressed in a light yellow t-shirt and a pair of linen trousers that Sherlock had purchased for him the previous summer. They were too long and Sherlock had offered to have them tailored but John had refused. Sherlock preferred the way John looked with the legs puddling around his ankles. It made him appear more relaxed.

"Something the matter?" John said, sitting down beside him. Sherlock looked over at him coolly, then passed John his phone. The doctor took it in surprise and unlocked it. He read the text message, then sighed, looking up and raising his eyebrows.

"So… you're upset because I got a text message from Sarah that you happened to read because you checked my phone for me?" he asked.

Sherlock glowered, refusing to be put off.

"Why is she texting you?" he demanded.

"Well," John sighed, looking down at the phone, "Technically, she's texted both me and Tricia, to see if we want to meet her for coffee today – which, by the way, I can't do, because I'm in France. I assume by 'coffee' she actually means coffee and that she's not using it as an innuendo to suggest some sort of the threesome."

Sherlock snorted.

"Don't be preposterous, John," he snapped. "It would take a great deal more imagination than even I have to concoct a scenario in which you and Tricia were sexually involved."

"Tell that to half our old unit," John muttered.

"They were clearly imbeciles," Sherlock replied. "Anyone with a modicum of observational skills should have been able to identify the nature of your relationship."

"So what you're worried about is that Sarah asking me to have coffee with her might be – what? Some sort of indication that she's still interested in me? That she wants to get back together?"

"You _did_ date her, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, seven years ago. And then she broke up with me. And then I started seeing this man, brilliant bloke, you might know him, he's called Sherlock? Oh, and I married him. And, somewhere in the seven years since I dated Sarah, she met and married someone, too."

At this, Sherlock glanced quickly at John, who was watching him with his Weary-and-Annoyed-John expression.

"Yeah," John said.

"Why is she texting you?" Sherlock demanded.

"Again, it looks like she wants to have coffee."

"Why now?" Sherlock growled.

"I don't know!" John retorted. "She hasn't said here, has she? I mean, unless she sent me other texts that you've deleted for some reason."

Sherlock paused, giving John an evaluating look, wondering if the doctor knew what he'd revealed then.

"This is the first time she's texted you?" he asked.

"Yes," John sighed. "I mean, what did you think? That I'd just not tell you? I told you when I ran into her and I really didn't want to tell you that, Sherlock. Because – hmm – it wasn't exactly a very good time for us. Not that I'm really enjoying this much, either. But, no, I haven't seen or spoken to her since. I'll also point out that she initiated contact with me both times – she saw me at the café and she sent this text message. And this was sent to both me and Tricia. If this is some dastardly plan to get back together with me, the only worse person she could have chosen to include aside from Tee is you. I know you never liked her much, Sherlock, but Sarah's a smart woman. She knows how long I've known Tricia – not just from when we were dating and she was reading my blog, but also from when she ran into me and I introduced Tee as 'this is Doctor Tricia Remsen, we were in the same unit in Afghanistan'. That's a pretty good indication of how long we've known each other."

Sherlock crossed his arms then caught himself and uncrossed them again. John sighed and glanced behind him at the doors off the balcony to their bedroom. Sherlock stiffened and John seemed to catch himself and dragged his gaze back. He was tense now, aware that his reaction had been to contemplate walking away. Sherlock felt his own muscles fighting him – he wanted to curl up and close himself off. John took a deep breath and Sherlock set his jaw, putting his open palms on his thighs.

"She also sent this last night when we were a bit busy, so Tricia's probably already replied that I'm away." He paused, looking at his phone, then deleted the message. Sherlock was somewhat shocked. John glanced up, shaking his head slightly. "Sometimes, it's nice for me to have friends who are doctors that I don't work with."

"You have Tricia," Sherlock sniffed.

"Am I only allowed to have one?" John sighed, twisting aside slightly to put his phone down on the small table beside the couch.

"No," Sherlock replied, his voice more of a mutter than he'd intended.

"You just don't want it to be Sarah."

He hesitated, then gave a curt nod.

"Because she's my ex."

Sherlock huffed quietly, turning his eyes away again to look out toward the sea. He heard John shift, the rustling of fabric indicating that the doctor was sitting cross-legged, turned toward him. Sherlock glanced back and John held his eyes steadily. The detective resisted fidgeting – he had disliked Sarah's intrusion in their lives when John had first met her, although he had not wanted to admit to jealousy at the time. That was petty and beneath him, but John was clearly his. He always had been. For some reason, Sarah had not seemed to understand this.

"We dated for a few months seven years ago," John said.

"Six months, John."

"Six months, then," John sighed. "But it was never really that serious."

"You had sex with her, so clearly it was serious enough for you."

"Says the man who had the same lover for over two years without ever entering into an actual relationship?" John replied, arching his eyebrows.

"Your ideas about sex in relationships have always included some sort of emotional attachment because you are a sentimentalist, John. Charles and I were both very clear on what we wanted from the other at the outset. Neither of us was interested in emotional complications."

"Yes, I get that," John sighed and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him irately. "So yes, I slept with Sarah – please don't tell me how you figured that out, I really don't need to know, although it doesn't surprised me at all that you did. It still wasn't very serious. I know you know that, too, because it wouldn't have escaped your brilliant deductive skills. You'll also remember that I wasn't exactly heartbroken when she split up with me. In fact, I seem to remember that not long after that, _someone_ decided in the middle of the night that he needed to sleep in my bed and then decided sleeping was not exactly what he wanted to do. The _same_ someone who was very insistent when we first met that he was married to his work."

Sherlock huffed again and folded his arms but couldn't keep the small smile from his lips. He fought it down severely, narrowing his eyes at John.

"You still look at women."

John nodded – Sherlock was pleased he didn't bother to deny it or make excuses. The detective had seen John do this plainly – well, plainly for him; it was conceivable that other people would not notice.

"And I've seen you look at other men, Sherlock. Granted, not as much, but once in awhile. That doesn't mean I think you're going to take off after them and leave me or cheat on me. Even when you ran into Charles a couple of years ago, I didn't worry about that."

"I saw him, John, I didn't run into him. We didn't speak."

"Yeah, well, I get the impression the two of you never did a lot of talking," John commented wryly, a faint amused gleam in his eyes. Sherlock snorted and glanced away to hide what John was sure was a smile.

"He did teach me to speak French properly. And German."

"Fine, you did some talking," John said, rolling his eyes. "The point is, I wasn't worried that you'd go off with him again after seeing him. Even if he was standing right here, I still wouldn't be worried about it. _You_ don't have to worry about Sarah. Or, rather, you can worry about Sarah all you want, but you don't have to worry about me."

"Do you miss it?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Miss what?"

"Being with women."

"Sometimes," John said. "Look, I– I was with women all my life until you. I guess I'm functionally bisexual but really, Sherlock, you're the only man for me."

John's lips twitched into a smile and Sherlock bit the insides of his cheeks in an attempt to keep himself from smiling as well.

"That was a horribly _cheesy_ thing to say, John. You sound like a greeting card."

"I can't help it if greeting cards get it right sometimes. But somehow I can't really imagine one that also contains the phrase 'I guess I'm functionally bisexual'. Not very romantic, don't you think?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and kept his expression stern.

"If I'd run into Sarah a year ago, or even six months ago, would you have been upset at all?" John asked.

Sherlock glowered out at the Mediterranean, flaring his nostrils slightly.

"No," he replied coolly. "But things were – different then."

John sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Things are not so different now that I'm going to leave you. Don't say it, Sherlock! I mean leave you for good, not take a couple days break to calm myself down. And you'll note I went to Tee's both times. Also, I think you should know this: she never once suggested I not come back. She never said I should give up and just leave you. All right? So me going over there doesn't put her on some opposing team."

Sherlock slouched down slightly, drumming his fingers on his thighs.

"I'd like you not to see her. Right now. Sarah. Not Tricia," Sherlock muttered. John was silent for a long moment and Sherlock forced himself to look over at his husband. John was very still and tense, his eyes somewhat narrowed, his jaw set. He seemed to be holding himself from any kind of response and Sherlock realised with shock that John may well say no.

"It's what I need," Sherlock said simply, keeping his voice soft. "Right now."

John exhaled a slow, controlled breath.

"Is it really?" he asked. "I need you to be honest. _Don't_ do this just to see if I'll cave, Sherlock. This isn't a game. You don't need to win over Sarah just to prove to yourself that you can. I can't take that."

Sherlock held John's gaze levelly, forcing his fingers not curl into fists against his legs.

"Yes," he replied. He kept his expression as open as he was able given the circumstances and took care that his voice was neither clipped nor angry.

John looked away, rubbing his palms together slowly, his expression tense. Unhappy-and-Suspicious John.

"Really?" he whispered.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Yes. Just for now, John. Just– right now."

John was still for another moment but then looked back at him. The faint shift of fabric made Sherlock open his eyes and meet his husband's gaze again. He swallowed, acutely aware that he did not know what John would do. He despised that sensation – it was rare, but Sherlock never failed to dislike the times it occurred when it was accompanied by some unpleasant prospect.

Then John nodded slowly.

"All right, Sherlock. For now. If that's what you need."

Sherlock exhaled, barely aware he'd been holding his breath. He felt himself relax into the couch cushions. John took a deep breath and let it out carefully, dropping his gaze to the divan but not really seeing it. Then he lifted his head again and turned to look over his left shoulder, out at the sea.

They sat in silence for a moment, uncertain and tense. Then Sherlock reached out cautiously with his left hand, taking John's right. The doctor curled his fingers tightly over the detective's, the muscles in his neck and jaw working slightly, but he stayed silent. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and nodded again, as though confirming something for himself. Sherlock raised their joined hands and pressed his lips to John's fingers. After a minute or so, John turned his eyes back to meet his husband's gaze. They sat quietly for awhile, not speaking but not letting go of the contact, either, until Sherlock suggested they ring down for breakfast and John agreed.


	6. Chapter 6

They went down to the beach in the late afternoon, after the worst of the day's heat had passed. The sand was still baking beneath their feet – John wore flip flops but Sherlock didn't seem to notice or care as they headed toward the water with their towels and a canvas bag that John carried slung over his right shoulder.

Out here, the beaches were not public but shared among the string of privately owned villas that lined the coast. There were no demarcation lines between the properties, but everyone who spent their holidays here seemed to know where the boundaries were. John never saw anyone wandering onto their strip of sand, nor had he trespassed onto anyone else's property. When he went exploring, Sherlock would shout out to him if he went too far. Occasionally, John saw other people in the water or further down the beach, but everyone seemed content keep to themselves.

It always struck him as strange and very, very opulent – this much space, this much luxury. It made him remember his tiny shared bunk at Bastion, or nights spent sleeping in a ditch for cover, cold and miserable, taking watch shifts to keep from being ambushed. Everything here felt so far from the rest of the world, especially now, when it was just the two of them. It made him sad to realize Sibyl would never come back here, and he suddenly wished he'd properly considered the suggestion to holiday in Frontignan. How many memories did Sherlock have of coming here for family holidays? Had he deleted them or saved them to some remote corner of his brain?

But Sherlock had agreed to come and maybe this would actually be helpful. John didn't know. He hoped so.

There was a small cabana several metres back from the mean high tide line and John always found that amusing. They were utterly alone, but they weren't out of sight of their neighbours. Not entirely anyway. And it was nice to have the protection from the sun. The structure was permanent, but the walls were pale brown canvas that could be tied aside to let in the sun and the breeze. Sherlock usually kept only the front one open so they could see the sea as it lapped the shore. John left his side undone today as well, at least for the time being. The canvas roof could not be retracted and he wanted to get at least some sun. And it gave him a good view of the beach stretching to the west. As the sun started its descent, he'd get the benefit of its rays.

Normally he enjoyed a good view of Sherlock, too. For a man who had insisted he was asexual when John had first met him, he had a strong propensity for showing off his body. The typical shirts with their top buttons undone was only a hint – when he was at the beach, he was normally in swimming trunks that rode almost dangerously low on his hips, revealing smooth muscles and taut lines. The first time John had seem him like that, he'd been glad for the privacy of the cabana and the fact that they'd also been on holiday alone then. Because he hadn't been able to stop himself from enjoying the view to its fullest extent.

Now Sherlock was wearing a light t-shirt and a pair of light linen pants that rolled up and buttoned mid-calf. When John had asked, Sherlock had commented that he wasn't planning on swimming, but John knew that was only half of the story. He was still feeling self-conscious about how thin he was – despite the fact that John had seen him several times now without clothing and no one else could see them without binoculars. It made the doctor a bit sad, but he didn't force the issue. Sherlock was clearly not particularly comfortable with the way he looked at the moment and John didn't want to make it worse. He'd have to content himself with at least getting the detective's shirt off.

They settled down and John slathered on some sunscreen before passing the bottle to Sherlock to do his back. The detective worked in the ointment with long, deep strokes that were more a massage than anything. John let himself relax with a small smile. When Sherlock was finished, he took a moment to slather the exposed parts of his skin, then put the bottle aside on the table between their lounge chairs and settled back into the one John had claimed for his own. Sherlock spread his legs and John shuffled back between them, leaning his back against Sherlock's chest. He smiled when he thought about how this was fairly close to how they normally slept, chest-to-back. Sherlock wound his arms around John's shoulders and the doctor enjoyed the twin sensations of light cotton and cool skin against his own bare skin. He slouched down a bit, just enough so that Sherlock could comfortably rest his chin on the top of John's head. John settled his hands on his stomach and Sherlock dropped his arms enough to interlace their fingers.

They sat in silence for awhile, watching the water. The sound was soothing and John noticed after a few minutes that Sherlock had slowed his breathing to match the gentle break and withdraw of the waves. He smiled to himself, sketching absent patterns on the back of his husband's hands.

_This is perfect_ , he thought with a smile, closing his eyes. Three weeks ago, he wouldn't have been able to imagine perfection if he'd tried. The image certainly wouldn't have involved a calm and relaxed Sherlock. John knew he was probably the only person who saw Sherlock this way and that he was lucky for it. Everyone else saw what Sherlock wanted them to see – to a greater or lesser extent. John got it all. He thought about that for a moment. Sometimes that made it next to impossible to deal with him. Other times, it meant moments like this.

His eyes traced the water's edge, watching the waves break and churn shallow white foam. John tried to imagine Sherlock there was a child, a curly-haired little boy full of mischievous energy, running about, splashing in the surf and laughing. The mental picture made him smile and chuckle quietly to himself.

"Mmm," Sherlock said. "What?"

"Just thinking about you here when you were small."

He felt his husband shift, pulling his head away then dropping it so that they were resting almost cheek-to-cheek.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because it's fun," John replied. "You were probably a handful."

Sherlock snorted softly.

"Mycroft certainly thought so. He despised being forced to watch me while my parents were out. In large part because I always managed to elude him."

John chuckled again.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" he asked. The shift in Sherlock's facial muscles meant he was wrinkling his nose.

"He was particularly disinclined to accompany me here to the beach," Sherlock commented. "He would suggest any number of other activities that didn't involve leaving the house and I would find a way to escape his attention and come down here on my own."

He paused and smiled.

"And Mycroft would always get in trouble for not keeping a proper watch on me."

John rolled his eyes but grinned. Of course Sherlock would think that was the best part.

"I can't see Mycroft enjoying a swim," John said. "Or doing anything that involves being outside for long periods of time."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "He was never keen on going in the water and he's certainly not a strong swimmer. He has that in common with our father."

"Really?" John asked.

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock agreed. "Although our father has no reservations about spending time outside – or at least here in the cabana. He simply avoids the water whenever possible."

"And you?"

"Oh, I swam whenever I had the opportunity."

"Really?" John asked again, more surprised this time. He twisted a bit so he could better see Sherlock's face. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a regular exercise type of child."

Sherlock huffed lightly.

"Seven years and you haven't noticed my exercise habits? You really must work on your observational skills, John. I _am_ a dedicated runner."

John rolled his eyes.

"Chasing down fleeing criminals does not constitute regular exercise," he said.

"I don't see why not. It's done on a fairly consistent basis and involves high levels of cardiovascular exertion and endurance and flexibility when it comes to dodging obstacles and bullets. Not to mention that I have a very active sex life, and medical experts have noted the cardiovascular benefits of that."

John elbowed Sherlock lightly in the ribs.

"That's cheating," he said.

"It's cheating to enjoy my physical activities?" his husband asked, cocking a dark eyebrow at him. "Would you prefer that I do a ten-mile run every morning, particularly if it's raining, followed by one hundred push ups and sit ups?"

John pretended to consider this.

"I wouldn't mind seeing you doing the push ups and sit ups," he replied. "But I doubt you'd do any of that, because I could beat you at all of it. You wouldn't stand a chance against me."

"Your attempts to manipulate me into what you consider a regular exercise regime will not work, Doctor," Sherlock said, reaching up to pinch John's stomach lightly. John gave a small yelp followed by a moan when Sherlock raised his hand higher and pinched his nipple. He felt Sherlock's tongue dart out to taste the skin along his jaw.

"I see _you're_ trying to manipulate _me_ into your idea of exercise," John said, aware that his voice was a bit huskier than it normally would have been.

"Hmm, well, perhaps your powers of observation aren't entirely lacking," Sherlock commented. "It really must be better than the punishment called training you endured in the army."

John flashed a smile.

"That training made me the man I am today," he pointed out.

"Then I am very grateful for it," Sherlock said, leaning down to brush his lips along the scars on the back of John's left shoulder. John shifted forward a bit to give him better access. Sherlock's touch was light as it almost always was when dealing with John's scars – only when he needed to grip John's shoulder against pain brought on by sudden storms was he ungentle. And even then, he was never incautious.

"And you are free to continue to pursue that pointlessly horrendous physical fitness regime if you wish – as long as I don't have to participate."

"You'd enjoy the benefits, though," John pointed out.

"I already enjoy your body a great deal. There's no need for you to change it in order to have me enjoy it more." He hooked one finger under the waistband of John's swim trunks and ran it along the inside from his hip to just below his navel. John rocked his hips slightly and Sherlock grinned against his skin then pressed his lips against the sensitive spot at the junction of his shoulder and neck. John exhaled slowly.

"It would greatly improve my opinion of your deductive abilities if you thought to bring the lube," Sherlock whispered, his lips just brushing John's ear, his breath ghosting over John's skin.

"Just for that, I should say I didn't," John replied.

Sherlock leaned back and let out a mock sigh.

"Oh, well, that would be disappointing. Did the army teach you nothing about preparedness, John?"

"You know, somehow, ensuring you always had lube on hand for any unplanned sexual encounters wasn't _really_ in the training manual. At least it wasn't when I was in basic training. I can't imagine it's changed, though."

Sherlock's hand drifted up along John's chest then traced the curves of his clavicles.

"Perhaps you were in the wrong army?" he asked, his voice thoughtful, as if he was really considering this. John rolled his eyes with a smile.

"I'm pretty sure any military is more concerned with training their soldiers to avoid getting hit while hitting as many of the bad guys as possible. I think they want their minds focused on the job, not on who they could be shagging."

" _Whom_ they could be shagging."

John rolled his eyes.

"Whatever."

"Whichever."

"If you don't stop, you won't be shagging anyone at all."

"And that would leave you equally bereft," Sherlock pointed out.

"I could take care of myself," John replied.

"Hmm," Sherlock said and the sound reverberated in his chest so that John felt it shudder down his spine and settle into his groin. Sherlock's fingertips began to trace back downward, maddeningly slowly. "A not altogether unpleasant prospect. However, since I'm here and you're here, we may well take advantage of the situation. I'm fairly certain these curtains do close."

"And what gave that away?" John asked.

"I've put my considerable intellect to the task of noticing the ties holding the canvas back and recalling that we've done this on previous occasions."

"I'm surprised you haven't deleted those," John teased and was a bit startled when Sherlock shifted suddenly, drawing his head away so he could look down at John. John twisted his head toward his husband again, giving him a puzzled look.

"Not a single moment, John. Neither good nor bad."

"Really?" John asked.

"Granted there will be moments I've forgotten through no choice of my own – my memory is substantially better than most people's but even I can't control all of it. But not by choice, no. Why would I? Do you?"

John shook his head.

"No, but you said you only store important information on your hard drive."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. John stared at him a moment and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Do you imagine any information about you is unimportant to me?"

"You never remember how I take my tea!" John protested.

"No, you're misinformed about how you like your tea," Sherlock replied. "The way I make it is the way you like it, but you're stubborn and refuse to acknowledge that my analysis is superior."

"Your analysis of what I think tastes good?" John asked.

"Yes."

John sighed and gave his head a shake.

"You just can't admit you're wrong."

"I'm never wrong."

"Well, then you tell me, did I bring the lube in our bag with our books and sunscreen?"

"We're on holiday in France, John," Sherlock replied with a knowing smile. "Of course you brought the lube. That was easily deduced from the expression on your face that mirrored those precise words. When you put it in the bag."

"Oi!" John said and Sherlock nipped his ear.

"I know from my own investigations that some our neighbours do own binoculars and enjoy watching the sea for boats and sea life, so I suggest you close the side of the cabana. I suspect we can leave the front open for the view without becoming the view ourselves."

"What's this? Sherlock Holmes is worried about modesty?"

"Modesty is not my concern, John," Sherlock said, putting a light pressure on John's jaw and turning his face. He tilted his own head down, brushing his lips over his husband's. "I'm simply not inclined to share you."


	7. Chapter 7

John woke up in the middle of the night and was almost immediately aware that Sherlock was not in their bed. He blinked himself awake groggily and rolled onto his back then more carefully onto his left side, pressing his face against Sherlock's pillow. It was cool; Sherlock had been gone for awhile. This wasn't entirely unusual, although more so when they were on holiday. The doctor rolled back over and snuggled down against his own pillows for a minute. Then he sat up and swapped pillows and buried his face in the linens that smelled of Sherlock, smiling sleepily to himself.

John dozed a bit but didn't really fall back asleep, drifting in a half-asleep state between wispy, unformed dreams. With a sigh, he shook himself awake and rolled onto his back again so he could stretch. John pressed his palms onto the side of his head and pressed his shoulders back into the pillows while flexing his feet to stretch his calves and thighs. Then he shook himself, sighed, and sat up.

The bedroom was dark but the curtains that covered the balcony doors were pulled back and one of the doors had been left open. A faint and cool salt-tinged breeze stirred in the room, shivering over John's skin, raising goose bumps. He got up and searched the floor for his discarded pyjamas, managing to find both the t-shirt and the boxers in the moonlight that glanced across the polished hardwood floor.

He checked outside and was not really surprised see Sherlock sitting on the divan, looking out toward the sea. John found some socks in his bag and then padded outside to join his husband. Sherlock's eyes flickered towards John when the doctor sat down on his right, keeping some space between them. Sherlock had his legs drawn up but not in his classic Sherlock sulk pose. He had his left leg curled up toward his chest with his left arm wrapped loosely around it and his right leg bent, resting on the cushion, so that the sole of his right foot pressed against the instep of his left. His right hand was settled lightly on his right knee.

John recognized this posture, too. He'd seen its mirror image before at the flat once, in the middle of the night. Sherlock had been sitting in the moonlight then, too, but on their kitchen floor. John glanced toward the Mediterranean when Sherlock's eyes slid back toward the sea. The blue moonlight was defining a paler path through the dark blue waters. The same moonlight was bathing them as well, giving them enough illumination to see by. It was brighter here than it was in London, having less light pollution with which to contend.

John pushed himself up just enough to shift over onto the middle cushion and settled down again. He tugged the blanket off the back of the couch and spread it over himself, offering half to Sherlock. The detective took the edge of the blanket and twitched it lightly, managing to cover himself. He smoothed the fabric over his left knee then wrapped his arm around his leg again. His right hand found John's left beneath the blanket and Sherlock interlaced their fingers, resting their joined hands on John's left thigh. He rubbed John's wedding band with his thumb, a soft pressure against John's palm and the inside of his ring finger. Sherlock's own ring caught the faint moonlight and gleamed gently.

John drew his legs up, settling himself more comfortably on the divan, tucking the blanket around himself against the cool night air. He leaned lightly against his husband, feeling the soft brush of Sherlock's grey silk pyjamas against his arm. Sherlock pressed minutely back into him and they sat in silence, looking out over the sea. After a few minutes, Sherlock leaned his head against John's, the dark curls tickling the edges of John's cheek and his temples faintly. John squeezed his husband's hand and Sherlock returned the embrace.

By degrees, they relaxed more against one another and against the couch cushions, shifting only the smallest amounts out of long practiced habit, getting comfortable against one another. John turned his head enough to press a kiss against Sherlock's shoulder and felt the telltale twitch in Sherlock's facial muscles that indicated a bare smile. It wasn't long-lived; Sherlock's expression relaxed back to neutral almost immediately.

John stayed silent, listening to the sound of the waves carried on the breeze, listening to the mingled pattern of their breathing. It was easy to believe they were they only two people on the planet at the moment – they couldn't see the other villas from where they were, and if anyone else was up and about in the house, they were neither visible nor audible. Vaguely, John hoped all the staff were getting a good night's sleep. He liked the idea that he and Sherlock were the only two people awake in the villa. At least they were alone in the family wing, just the two of them and the Mediterranean spread out below them, shimmering darkly as waves crested and broke in the moonlight.

They had been there a week and John could feel both of them relaxing into one another's company again. He felt more at ease around Sherlock and felt less like being married was a distant and troublesome concept rather than real relationship. Sherlock seemed more himself around John too – he was down to his regular levels of energy when not working and John thought he was slowly letting go of the McKinney case. The doctor knew that wasn't gone, not while the man was still out there. It sat just as poorly with John that their unknown killer was walking free. As of Angela's last update, which had come prior to them leaving for France, neither she nor Mycroft had made any progress identifying him. John had wondered then if maybe Sherlock had been right – maybe he was the only one who could catch this man.

But if it killed Sherlock, then what good did it do them? It was just another victory for the killer. He'd taken enough from Sherlock as it was.

In the seven days they'd been in Frontignan, Sherlock had put back another pound and a half, bringing his total to three. John liked to track the progress by the fit of Sherlock's wedding band. It was still loose but less so now and he was in no real danger of losing it, although he took it off if he went into the water. In bed – or on the divan or in the cabana or in the shower or anywhere else – John liked to chart the progress by how easily his hand fit around the detective's waist. Sherlock would always be thin but John had grown used to him not being quite so bony. He was starting to get a bit of his scant padding back and John was grateful. He didn't like the vague but unshakeable worry that he might hurt his husband. He didn't say this out loud, because he was certain the only thing Sherlock would hear in that was "fragile" – which he'd hate – but he also knew the detective understood the unspoken concern.

If Sherlock could manage the same amount of weight gain in the week they had left, he'd be more than halfway there by the time they went home. John liked that idea and hope it worked. If it did, then Sherlock's clothes would fit him much better, well enough to wear again without looking odd or feeling uncomfortable. He'd purchased some new clothing before they'd left, but John could tell he didn't really like it.

The rich French food was doing him good, though – and probably the lack of running around, although they were indulging very frequently in Sherlock's other favourite exercise. John just made sure that Sherlock made up those calories as well. He smiled to himself; he was looking forward to another week here. It was more relaxing than he'd hoped, even if there were still some tense moments. He appreciated what Sherlock had said about having to return to their normal lives in London, but at least this way they were better equipped to face it.

He felt Sherlock's thumb move from his palm to the back of his hand, tracing slow circles. Sherlock let out a deep breath and shifted slightly so that his face was turned a bit more toward John's. The doctor could feel the upper curve of Sherlock's nose against his temple and the faint whisper of warm breath against his cheek. He stayed where he was, silent and attentive. The waves and their quiet breathing remained the only sounds and John felt a bit more of the tension he was still carrying ebb out of him.

He was only a little surprised when he felt something wet trace down his cheek, accompanied by a subtle shift in Sherlock's breathing. It wasn't much, a slightly shaky exhalation, not something he would have noticed had he not been sitting right next to his husband and listening for it. John managed to glance up without moving his head too much. Sherlock had his eyes closed and there were a few tracks tracing his cheeks, glistening faintly in the moonlight. John watched another tear slip down Sherlock's right cheek to brush over his own.

He raised his right hand, resting it lightly on Sherlock's face, his thumb against his husband's cheekbone. John didn't brush away the tears even when one pooled onto the pad of his thumb, a small, cool kiss against his skin. He dropped his hand a bit so that he could rest his thumb against Sherlock's lips. They were slightly parted and John felt another unsteady exhalation. Sherlock swallowed, the muscles in his throat working, his Adam's apple bobbing, then he pressed his lips together and closed his eyes a bit tighter. He slouched down enough to lean his forehead against John's and the doctor adjusted his position slightly as well, turning to face Sherlock. He moved his hand to the back of Sherlock's head, lacing his fingers into his husband's hair, just resting it there. The tear that caught on Sherlock's eyelashes shimmered as it caught the moonlight before it rolled down his cheek.

This wasn't quite the same as the other times Sherlock had really let himself mourn his mother's death. It lacked the stunned quality of the first time, the shock that had caught him unawares. And it wasn't the desperate anguish of the second time, spilling out when it became impossible to contain, sorrow mixed with rage. This was a deeper grief, not as sharp. This was a real understanding that she was gone and sadness, genuine sadness. Almost acceptance. For the first time, John thought that Sherlock might comprehend it and might actually believe it. That he might not be trying fervently to fight it, as if by doing so he could alter reality and undo the past four months.

John knew how much it hurt, too, that first bit of recognition that things were not going to change, that this was real and permanent. He tightened his fingers in Sherlock's hair the barest amount and squeezed Sherlock's other hand tightly. The detective returned the gesture lightly, little more than the subtle pressure of his fingertips against John's skin. Then he lowered his head more, resting it carefully on John's left shoulder, shifting his legs so they were tucked under his body. John dropped his right hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, kneading the muscles there gently but deeply.

"It's all right," John murmured, his lips against Sherlock's temple. "I've got you."

Sherlock exhaled harder, his breath warm against John's neck, then nodded once, mindful of John's injury. John didn't expect much change and he was right – this wasn't gulping, gasping sobs, just tears. Sherlock's breathing was a little harsher than normal and John could feel his husband's shoulders shaking beneath his hand but the tears were silent. They traced Sherlock's cheeks, mapping small, damp patches on John's t-shirt and against his skin. He didn't care.

He pressed his lips against Sherlock's temple, letting the contact take the place of words he knew Sherlock didn't want to hear. He hoped this was a step in the right direction, that Sherlock could start to let go of the fierce control he'd been trying to maintain, to see that it was doing him no good, getting him nowhere. John let him take his time, knowing how hard it was, knowing how heartbreaking it was to face the prospect that this was real.

John closed his eyes and kept his silence, holding Sherlock warmly and giving him the space and security he needed to properly grieve for his mother.


	8. Chapter 8

The sky was darkening rapidly, the low clouds verging on black, changing the quality of the light in the bedroom so that it seemed disjointed – half day, half night. It lacked the fading-to-blue quality of evening light and was not dark enough for true night. The atmosphere was far more threatening, closer and heavier. Sherlock sat reading in a chair near the balcony doors, which he'd left open. A warning wind blew around the room, rustling the pages of his book as he read and making the fabric of the sheets on the bed whisper in the semi-darkness.

He glanced up when John came back in from his walk, marking his page with a long index finger. He swept his eyes over his husband, looking for signs that John's shoulder was bothering him, but there were none. This pleased him – he had anticipated that the sudden change in pressure that signalled the approaching storm might have aggravated his old injury. It was difficult to predict when this would happen. Sometimes the merest change in the weather could do it. Other times, more drastic changes wouldn't affect him at all. Perhaps it had something to do with John's emotional state as well? He was far more relaxed here, which may prevent low levels of tension in his body. Sherlock would have to study this and determine if he were correct.

John flicked on one the lamps beside the bed and Sherlock re-evaluated his assessment of his husband – John was relaxed, but this was overlain by something else. Not precisely tension. Hesitation. There was something he wanted to do or say and he was reluctant to do so. Sherlock presumed this was in regards to Sibyl. John was unlikely to want to talk about the McKinney case while they were here – if at all. It was possible this had something to do with Sarah Sawyer, but the detective hoped not. He had asked John to not be in contact with her and he'd meant it. The request had not been some sort of test; it had been genuine. But if John wanted to talk about Sarah, he would also look defensive. Since he did not, and there was no other subject at the moment that would cause him to be so tentative, it must be Sibyl.

Sherlock closed his book as John turned on another lamp. The golden light chased away some of the oppressiveness brought on by the oncoming storm, holding the darkness of the day at bay. It was comfortable this way, Sherlock thought. He enjoyed this sort of atmosphere when John was around. The warmth and cosiness seemed to fit him, as if he were bringing them into the room.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

John hesitated again, biting his lower lip in his indecisive, pensive way. Sherlock waited patiently then John sighed.

"I have something for you," he said. Sherlock nodded. The doctor paused again, then crossed the room to his suitcase which lay open on its rack and bent over it, shifting through his clothing in search of something. Sherlock enjoyed the view – John always looked amazing in jeans and the detective was glad he wore them on a regular basis. Today he was wearing a dark blue pair with a simple white cargo shirt. Sherlock enjoyed the contrasting colours and the way the shirt highlighted the tan John had acquired easily over the course of a week. It was not surprising that he tanned so readily, given his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock made a mental note that they should visit Frontignan more frequently. He liked the way John looked with darker skin.

The doctor straightened back up and turned, holding a book. Sherlock frowned slightly – that was one of John's old books, one he hadn't read because John had frankly terrible taste in literature. It had improved somewhat over the past seven years but not enough that Sherlock felt any pressing desire to read John's books. And it certainly wasn't a book Sibyl would have read, nor had she given it to him. But John opened the book and pulled something out – an old photograph, judging from the size and shape.

"I wasn't sure…" John sighed. "I've had it for a couple of years. I just thought you should have it now."

Sherlock held out his hand and John crossed the room, extending the photograph to him, then settling on the arm of the chair. Sherlock felt John's left hand rest on his back between his shoulder blades – comfort and support and reassurance.

He looked at the photograph in mild surprise, then felt a rush of memory – not for this, but of his mother in general. It was an old black-and-white photograph and the lack of colour made the picture seem even more striking. It had been taken in the gardens of the Buckinghamshire house in mid-winter, when the ground had been blanketed by snow. He saw himself, a tiny child, wrapped in warm winter clothing, his curls escaping around the fringes of his grey toque, his hands encased in matching wool mittens. His mother was crouched in front of him, her long dark hair tumbling down her back, almost indistinguishable from her black wool coat. She wore a light scarf around her neck, tucked neatly into the coat. She was holding her hands towards him, wearing elegant leather gloves that accented the slimness and length of her fingers. He had a handful of snow in his mitted hands and she looked as though she were accepting it from him. He was grinning triumphantly; she was smiling proudly.

Sherlock stared at the photograph then turned it over. On the back, his father had written:

"Sibyl & Sherlock, January, 1980."

He had been three years old, she had been thirty-one. He was stunned by how young she looked. He couldn't remember this, but he had some hazy, half-recollected images of her from his early childhood.

He realized with some shock that most of what he remembered was her smiling.

He felt John's hand in his hair on the back of his head and the doctor's thumb tracing small, slow circles. Sherlock made a soft noise at the back of his throat and leaned his head into John's hand. In the distance, the first rumble of thunder shuddered through the clouds. It was low and quiet but carried the promise of strength and ferocity. The wind sprang up even more, as if accepting the thunder's challenge, and John drew himself away gently to shut the balcony doors.

"Where did you get this?" Sherlock asked.

"I found it in a photo album when we were up in the attics looking for something – oh, a couple years ago now."

Sherlock flipped the photograph back over and gazed at his young self and his mother. The album probably hadn't been meant to be up there. Occasionally things got misplaced and ended up in the rambling attics. He would have to take John up there next time they were in Buckinghamshire so he could find it. He was rather good at the maze that constituted their attics, even if John wasn't.

"Thank you," he said softly when John settled back down on the arm of the chair. Sherlock glanced up and John leaned over, kissing him softly. Sherlock kissed him back then John pressed a kiss against his forehead.

"You're welcome," the doctor replied, visibly relieved that his gift had not caused any distress. Sherlock tucked the photograph carefully into the cover of his book as another roll of thunder rumbled, closer this time. He caught the faint flicker of the lights before John did – he could tell this by the delay in the way John stiffened and glanced aside. A moment later, the power flickered again then failed, plunging them into a sudden deeper darkness.

"Brilliant," John sighed and Sherlock smiled slightly. For a man who had lived several years at army bases in Afghanistan, he had an astonishingly low tolerance for when the power went out here, which it did here on an occasional basis when the storms hit.

"Do we have a torch?" John asked, pushing himself to his feet and moving more hesitantly across the room.

"There should be some candles in the middle drawer in the desk," Sherlock replied. He stood as well, following John more confidently, his eyes adjusting to the light that was decreasing rapidly as the storm moved toward them. John was shuffling in the desk drawers now, causing pens and other items to rattle about. The thunder rolled again, ever closer.

"No, this one," Sherlock said, opening a drawer and pulling out a box of candles and a package of matches. John closed the drawer he'd been working on and took one of the candles, holding it steady as Sherlock struck a match and held it to the wick. It caught after a moment and a tiny orange flame sprung up.

Sherlock crouched down and searched the bottom desk drawer for the simple candleholders they kept stored in there for just such an occasion. John bent over slightly, giving him weak light with which to see. Sherlock found it after a minute and dusted off ineffectively with one hand, then huffed. It would have to do. He stood and jostled John, who hadn't moved back quickly enough. The doctor hissed softly through his teeth.

"Sorry," Sherlock apologized immediately, instinctively, realising John had been splattered by candle wax when the detective had bumped him. He expected John to nod, but his husband was staring at the small white puddle on the back of his hand. Sherlock paused, watching John carefully.

That hadn't been a pained reaction. Not exactly.

"Really, John?" he asked, his lips stretching into a smile. John looked up quickly, surprise in his features. Surprise and arousal. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and John actually blushed. "Seven years and you had no idea?" he asked. It was the only explanation – John would have told him otherwise.

Somewhat stunned, John shook his head. Sherlock reached out carefully and peeled the wax off with his thumbnail and watched John shudder.

"You've never burnt yourself with wax?" he murmured.

"Yes, I have," John replied. "But I don't use candles that often, you know. And _you've_ never burnt me with wax."

"Ah," Sherlock said, comprehending. His smile became more predatory and he saw John react to it, swallowing hard, not entirely apprehensively. Sherlock took the candle carefully from him, then took his husband's hand and turned it, exposing the softer skin of his inner arm. John stiffened but did not protest and Sherlock knew he would say if it made him uncomfortable.

Carefully, the detective tipped a bit of wax onto John's arm. The doctor clenched his jaw and inhaled sharply through his nose, then exhaled quickly. Sherlock's grin grew. He put the candle in the holder and set it on the desk. John's eyes flickered to follow it, dark and gleaming in the dancing light.

"We have no power and there's quite a storm outside," Sherlock murmured. He raised his right hand to trace the backs of his fingers down John's neck, along the hollow between his clavicles and to the top button of his shirt. Leaning down, he nipped his husband's lower lip and popped the first button of his shirt at the same time, then let his fingers trail to the next one. "And by some lack of observation on your part, you've managed to keep something from me for almost seven years. I proposed we begin investigating it now."

John swallowed hard and nodded as Sherlock undid the next button. He leaned forward, trying to catch the detective in a kiss, but Sherlock pulled away after only the barest contact, making him groan. Sherlock only grinned and unbuttoned John's shirt quickly, tugging it easily from the waistband of his jeans. He let if fall to the floor, pleased that John's breathing was already more ragged than normal.

Sherlock popped the button of John's jeans and folded himself easily to his knees. John's whole body twitched in anticipation and Sherlock chuckled low in his chest leaning forward to nuzzle John's erection through his jeans. The doctor moaned softly, then gasped hard when Sherlock caught his zipper between his teeth and tugged it down in a smooth movement. He steadied John's hips when they bucked then drew away to John's corresponding groan of protest.

Sherlock pulled John's jeans down, then hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of John's pants and drew them over his cock and down, letting them gather at his ankles.. John's fingers wove into his hair, not in the comforting gesture, but in need this time. Sherlock chuckled again and placed a kiss on John's hip then bent further and undid John's trainers. The doctor kicked himself out of his clothing impatiently and the detective smirked.

"On the bed," he ordered. John scrambled up and Sherlock put the candle on the bedside table, watching as John's eyes flickered to it hungrily. The detective smiled and fetched two more candles and one more candleholder. He lit one of the candles and set it beside the first, giving them another small pinpoint of light in the stormy gloom. A flash of lightning illuminated the room sharply, followed shortly by another peal of thunder, much closer this time. Sherlock heard the first rattle of raindrops against the balcony windows.

He moved to his suitcase and dug out two things, then climbed onto the bed. John spread his legs and Sherlock knelt between them, letting a dark blue silk scarf settle on John's abdomen. The doctor gasped and arched slightly at the sensation of the smooth fabric on his bare skin and Sherlock grinned another feral grin, leaning forward, almost crawling up John's body. John's eyes darted up to him, wide and waiting. Sherlock bent his head and John raised his for a kiss but Sherlock pulled away at the last moment, running the silk tie he still held in his hand over John's lips.

"Put your arms up," he whispered.

John moaned softly and obeyed and Sherlock knotted his wrists together easily, then secured the tie to the headboard. He never made the knots tight enough that John could not get himself out easily if need be. He never needed to. John never freed himself until they were finished.

The doctor's eyes flitted downward again as Sherlock reached between them and picked up the silk scarf. He raised his eyebrows questioningly and John nodded quickly, and exhaled slowly, trying to control his rapid breathing. Sherlock smiled, gave him a quick kiss, then folded the scarf over John's eyes, tying it behind his head. He tucked the ends of the scarves into the blindfold, smoothing his fingers over John's skin.

In the early days of their relationship, he'd enjoyed this as well – he had relished in cataloguing the sensations John caused and trying to deduce what John was doing without being able to see him. Following the crash and true – if temporary – blindness, he no longer liked it. But John still did.

"Sugar?" Sherlock murmured, dropping his head so that John could feel his breath against his skin. John nodded quickly, impatiently.

"Say it," Sherlock said.

"Yes. Sugar," John agreed breathlessly. Sherlock pressed a kiss on John's sternum and smiled into it – they'd had the same safe word since the beginning. That had been John's brilliant suggestion. It had been where the whole thing had started, he had pointed out.

Sherlock sat back, drawing his hands down John's sides, over his hips, along his thighs. The doctor gave a quiet whimper and Sherlock pulled away, picking up the candle and the matches. He struck a match and smiled at the way John's whole body shuddered at the sound. He lit the candle and shook out the match, the tiny flame vanishing with the smell of sulphur and a crack of thunder outside.

Sherlock let the candle burn for a minute and John shifted impatiently, wrapping his hands around the silk tie, tugging gently, securing himself even more. Sherlock shifted to sit on his own heels, then turned slightly, running his left hand up John's leg, distracting the doctor with a touch. He grinned and tipped the candle carefully just above John's navel, letting a few drops hiss onto the doctor's skin.

John let out a soft cry and arched up. Sherlock ran his left hand up and pressed his thumb into the cooling wax, earning a deep groan. John bit his lip then gasped again when Sherlock flicked the wax off easily.

"Oh my god," John managed, breathing hard, raising his head as if he could see what was going on. Then he dropped it back again, arching his neck, when Sherlock let a few more drops fall in the same spot. It was left it cool, then peeled off. John made a sound somewhere between a moan and a grunt and Sherlock's grin grew. He dropped his left hand again, letting his fingertips trace the contours of John's knee and raised the candle, dripping a bit more wax right at the junction where his sternum met his abdomen. John hissed and jerked his head from side to side, his hands tightening more on the tie. Curiously, Sherlock lowered the candle to bring the flame close enough to John's skin to melt the wax already there and add a few more drops without burning him. John arched again, moaning. Sherlock ran his left hand up to stroke him once, twice, teasingly, and John's hips bucked as Sherlock closed his fist around him.

"God–" John moaned, thrusting into Sherlock's hand, then whimpered desperately when Sherlock drew away. "Sherlock–"

"Mm-hmm," the detective murmured, leaning down to run his tongue up John's stomach from the small red mark where the first drops had fallen to the cooling wax on his sternum. John shifted restlessly beneath him.

Sherlock drew himself back up and ran his left hand up John's side, letting three drops spill along John's right clavicle, each earning a faint hiss when it struck. He raised his eyebrows – that didn't seem as sensitive. He moved the candle to John's left side and then held off, stroking John's body with his left hand, making John wait and wonder. He evaluated John carefully then moved the candle down, letting a few drops fall just below his navel this time. John let out a cry and arched again before falling back and writhing when Sherlock peeled off the wax a bit too soon so that it tugged gently on his skin and the fine hairs on his lower belly. The detective's grin widened and he dabbed more wax there. John was tense waiting for it to come off but Sherlock let it stay, circling its edges with his index finger.

He spent an instructive half hour testing John's body, finding out where was the most sensitive and where was the least. John moaned and shifted beneath him, gasping out small entreaties, whimpering when the wax touched anywhere on his stomach and his upper thighs. Sherlock was careful not to test any areas that were too sensitive – his face, neck, nipples, cock and especially the scar on his left shoulder. He wanted John to enjoy the pain, not be damaged by it. John whimpered and arched into his touch and into the heat from the candle, his breath coming apart into hard-edged gasps that verged on sobs. He snapped his head back and forth, moaning, biting his lip, finally begging in a broken voice.

"God– Sherlock– _please_ –"

"More?" Sherlock asked, his voice almost lost in the rumble of thunder above the house. John managed to nod once, desperately. Sherlock leaned forward, bringing the candle close enough to John's face that his husband could feel his breath and the sudden flare then disappearance of heat as he blew out the candle. John gasped and Sherlock leaned over him to put the candle aside, making sure that his clothing brushed the doctor's sensitized bare skin. John gasped again, arching toward him, arms jerking as if to wrap around him, held back by the tie.

Sherlock settled himself onto his husband, stretching fabric against skin and John hooked his legs around Sherlock's immediately, thrusting his hips pleadingly. Sherlock smiled, running his hands down John's sides, settling them onto his hips, pressing down lightly but firmly enough to keep him in place. John shifted, breathing hard, and Sherlock smiled again, kissing John lightly, then dropping his head to work his way slowly downward with lips and teeth and tongue as outside, the storm raged on around them.


	9. Chapter 9

John glanced out the window and frowned – the sky was overcast and threatening rain. His laptop had a full charge, but if the power went out again, they would lose their wireless connection and, back in London, there would be a disappointed four-year-old girl. He listened hard for thunder, accustomed to keeping his ears open for low sounds in the distance. He heard nothing, but the frown didn't leave his features as he eyed the looming sky.

Sherlock stepped up behind him and put a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb down John's spine. The doctor shuddered lightly and glanced up, tilting his head back to get a proper view of his husband. Sherlock bent down, bringing his lips to John's ear.

"It's not going to storm," he murmured. "Of course, this doesn't prevent us from using the candles."

Another tremor passed through John's body and he felt Sherlock's lips stretch into a smile. It had been three days since he'd discovered his penchant candle wax but time hadn't diminished the memory of how it felt.

He'd asked for it again the following night. Sherlock had said no.

It had shocked John to no end – until he'd seen the glint in Sherlock's eyes and realised the detective would decide when and where. Not knowing made the anticipation so much stronger.

John inhaled slowly and nodded. It wasn't going to be right now anyway – _nothing_ was going to happen right now. They didn't have time before the Skype date he'd arranged with Tricia for Josephine's birthday. It would be easier to talk to her today; Tricia had had a small birthday party for her the day before, on the ninth, and John was sure that his niece would have been exhausted and overdosed on sugar. Today was her actual birthday and he felt badly for missing it, but he also knew this was more important. And there would be other birthdays.

Sherlock dropped his hand from the back of John's neck and the doctor felt a little bit of relief. He took another deep breath and calmed himself. There would be plenty of time later for whatever they wanted to do. They still had four days in France and John intended to get the most out of them. He was already planning a trip down to the beach that night, after the sun had set. The moon was waning now, but once it rose, they would have enough light to see by. And after dark, they could leave the sides of the cabana tied back to catch the moonlight without worrying about neighbours with binoculars seeing something unexpected.

John was looking forward to it. He particularly liked the sound of the surf mixed with the sound of Sherlock's moans.

_Right_ , he thought, putting that out of his mind as well. He put all thoughts of his plans for later out of his head, which unfortunately led him to realise they hadn't bought anything for Josephine for her birthday yet. It would necessitate a trip into town. That could happen tomorrow. He wondered if he could convince Sherlock to come with him, but the detective had purchased two souvenir magnets a couple of years ago and probably thought he'd exhausted his need to go to the shops in Frontignan after that. Plus – John smiled – getting Sherlock into a toy store would probably be next to impossible. And John would then be subjected to a litany of complaints about the nature of children's toys and how ineffective they were in training young minds.

If Sherlock had his way, Josephine would probably have a fully functioning chemistry set by now, complete with tiny lab coat. She already had a pair of goggles Sherlock had bought so she could watch him work. John loved to see her wander around their flat wearing them. She usually pretended to be underwater, making John become a fish or a whale or a boat or whatever she felt she needed in her marine setting at that particular time.

"You ready?" he called over his shoulder to Sherlock. The detective came to stand behind him again, resting a hand lightly on John's left shoulder. The sensation was relaxing – John wondered if Sherlock knew that. Probably. It wasn't something he was likely to miss.

John opened Skype and found Tricia already waiting online and rang her. A moment later, Josephine's grinning face appeared in front of them and John felt his own features relaxing into a smile. He glanced up at Sherlock quickly to see that his husband was also smiling.

"Happy birthday, Jo," John said and Josephine's grin widened.

"Say thank you," John heard Tricia say from off to the side.

"Thank you," Josephine repeated. Sherlock crouched down to better see the screen and John tilted it slightly so the angle was good for both of them. Josephine beamed at them from her kitchen table where Tricia had obviously set her up so she could work in the background and keep an eye on things.

"Look what I got," she said, holding up a doll proudly. It was one of those plastic girl's dolls, similar to a Barbie. John had no clue as to what it was called, being so uneducated about dolls that he wasn't even a philistine. It had dark hair and wide, painted blue eyes and was wearing a yellow sundress. Josephine held it in front of her so they could see it, obscuring herself for a moment.

"Very nice," John said, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs when he rolled his eyes. "What's her name?"

"Sherlock," Josephine said promptly and John blinked, then burst out laughing, half at the name, half at the expression on his husband's face. He heard Tricia's sudden surprised laughter, too, and then her face appeared behind her daughter's.

"That explains why she wouldn't tell me," she managed, pressing her hands over her lips to try and contain her laughter. "She said it was a surprise."

"I'm honoured," Sherlock said dryly, rolling his eyes. Tricia turned away slightly, her shoulders shaking. She recomposed herself with effort but John could see that it was hard won and would probably break again.

"You should be," she agreed. "How many uncles have dolls named after them?"

Sherlock sighed. It was a distinction he'd probably never imagined he'd have, John thought.

"You do realize that doll is the representation of a woman and I'm a man?" Sherlock asked his niece. Josephine grinned at him and nodded. Sherlock sighed and Tricia pressed her fist to her lips, her shoulders shaking again.

"Be nice," John murmured under his breath. "It's a sign of respect."

"Are you coming for cake?" Josephine asked, pulling the doll back from the screen.

"On Friday we are," John replied. She made a face at him, then looked at her mother.

"Why Friday?" she demanded, turning back to John.

"Because we're on holiday in France right now," John replied.

"I want to go on holiday in France! Please, Mummy?"

"Maybe at Christmas," Tricia replied, giving John a knowing grin.

"No, I want to go on holidays with Uncle John and Uncle Lock."

At this, Sherlock raised his eyebrows and Tricia did the same.

"I believe it's inadvisable to try and travel with other people's children across international borders," Sherlock pointed out. Josephine looked at him blankly for a moment, then seemed to get the gist of his statement and scrunched up her face in displeasure.

"Not if you have a notarized letter from her parents!" Henry said in the background as he walked by. "Or if you go by train."

"Don't give her ideas," Tricia laughed and John rolled his eyes at the thoughtful expression on Sherlock's face.

"Don't give _him_ ideas," he replied. He wondered if Sherlock would handle a holiday with Josephine. He was good with her for short periods of time but John somehow doubted that Sherlock could cope with several days of a small child, even if that small child was Josephine. Generally, John was the only person from whom Sherlock did not have to escape.

But he supposed Tricia, Henry and Josephine could holiday with them here. There was more than enough room and Sherlock would have somewhere to go when a child's company became too much to contend with. If there were other adults around to take care of her, Sherlock would enjoy being able to teach Josephine everything he could about France, the region, the villa. John would just have to make sure that Sherlock didn't try to develop her palate for wine. Four was probably a bit too soon for that.

He would make a point of talking to his husband about the idea later.

"How long till Friday?" Josephine asked and John refocused. She was looking at Sherlock, of course – she'd come to expect far more accurate counts from him than from John.

"What time on Friday, Tricia?" Sherlock asked.

"About two," Tricia replied. John had taken Friday off as well, having no desire to go back to work for one day after returning from France.

"Then five days, one hour, and twenty-two minutes," Sherlock replied. Josephine scrunched her nose up at him again.

"That's lots," she said.

"That's _a lot_ ," Sherlock corrected and John rolled his eyes.

"She's four," he murmured.

"Proper grammar can be learned at a very early age and doing so establishes appropriate habits in speech patterns," Sherlock insisted. "And no, Jo, it is not that long, not when you consider the time span for which you yourself have been alive. John is right: you are four years old. That is significantly longer than five days."

Josephine grinned at him and giggled, then rounded her gaze on her mother.

"Can we have another cake for Uncle John and Uncle Lock please?" she asked eagerly. Tricia smiled.

"Priorities," she said.

"Yes, you can have another cake," Henry replied and Tricia rolled her eyes while trying to repress a smile as she turned her head toward her husband.

" _You're_ making it then," she said.

"Fine," John heard Henry reply with a grin in his voice. "I can make a cake."

"Have you ever made a cake in your life?" Tricia asked.

"I used to make brownies all the time when I was in uni."

"I don't want brownies!" Josephine protested.

"And you are _not_ making those kind of brownies!" Tricia shot back. John laughed and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I can make a cake," Henry replied. "And I will."

Josephine grinned at her father and Tricia gave John a wry look from her side.

"Well, there you go. You will have cake," she said. "Probably with pink icing, if I know my daughter." Josephine nodded eagerly.

"Pink," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"She's a four year old girl," John replied in a low voice. "I think it's some sort of natural law. Besides, you have a pink shirt." He turned his attention back to his niece. "What are you learning in school right now, Jo?"

They chatted with her for awhile, until she got distracted in the way of a small child and bounced off to do something else. Sherlock got equally as sidetracked when Josephine left and wandered off toward the balcony. John talked with Tricia for a couple of minutes but then wrapped it up. He closed the laptop and stood, stretching, as Sherlock wandered back inside. John watched his husband move about the room, absently picking things up and examining them before putting them down. His movements were abrupt, not quite snappish, but John knew the signs. Sherlock was getting bored. He was itching to go back to work and needed an outlet, at least for the time being. He'd be fine for the remaining time that they were there if he could keep relatively busy.

"Come on," John said. "Let's go for a walk."

* * *

When they got back, Sherlock could tell John was restless. They had gone for a long walk through the dunes to a more populated public beach and had strolled around, doing what John called "people watching". Sherlock knew this was a means of distracting him, but it worked surprisingly well when a case was not immediately available and there was no other work he could do. John was quite brilliant sometimes – on a fairly consistent basis, actually. It was a quite good idea. Sherlock kept his voice low, for John's ears only, while running through his deductions. Apparently, it was discomfiting for people to overhear his evaluations of their lives, behaviours and motivations. He was certain this was nonsense; surely they could learn something valuable from his insights? But John insisted otherwise and the reactions he'd gotten when people had heard him only supported this.

It reinforced Sherlock's general view of humanity. People were idiots.

_Most_ people were idiots. There was a small but select group who were not, or at least who only had brief moments of idiocy that could be forgiven and dismissed because they were, after all, still human.

But, yes. All the clear signs for discomfort in John were there. The way he was holding himself suggested his shoulder was beginning to ache – not seriously, but enough that he was starting to feel uncomfortable, enough to make him snappish if it kept up. Probably caused by the low pressure system that had brought in the overcast skies. He was sighing and shifting his shoulder unconsciously, glaring about the room.

Sherlock put a gentle pressure on John's right shoulder and his husband looked up, frowning slightly. He seemed to realise then that his old wound was bothering him and sighed again, only this time more deeply. Sherlock nodded at the bed and John glanced at it, then back at him before giving a small, dry smile. He crossed the room and undressed, folding his clothes neatly and putting them aside – ever the former army captain – before climbing onto the bed and lying down on his stomach. Sherlock got the small bottle of massage oil from the bedside table and took off his wedding band. The ring was not as loose on his finger as it had once been but still came off too easily for his liking.

He settled himself on the back of John's legs, chafed some oil onto his hands to warm them up and set to work. John shifted to make himself more comfortable, head turned to the left. Ten days in the Mediterranean sun had not only darkened his skin but lightened his hair back to a sandy blond, which Sherlock liked. It also hid the grey, but he refrained from mentioning this, because John did not like to hear talk of his greying hair. He was watching Sherlock as best he could from his prone position. There was some tension in his face, caught around the corners of his eyes and mouth but it began to ebb away slowly as Sherlock worked.

The detective knew that if anyone else was aware that he did this, they'd find it strange and would assume it bored him. Nothing could be further from the truth. It was fascinating to map John's body over and over, to feel it shift and relax under his hands, to note the way the knots resisted and then released when he focused on them. It helped him understand how John was feeling – not just the way he said he felt, but the small things that he was not aware of, too.

Right now, it was not just the weather that was making him restive, it was also the prospect of returning to London. John was enjoying their time here and worried that the ease they'd found with one another again would vanish when they both returned to work. Sherlock had initially been concerned about this, too. But they were both more cognisant of one another now. This would help. He did not wish to fight or have to face the prospect of John leaving him again. Never again. Not if he could help it.

Sherlock did not expect John to fall asleep and he was correct. The doctor didn't even really drowse, but lay still, relaxing into the massage, some of his anxieties dissipating. Sherlock moved slowly, ensuring he did a thorough job, responding to the twitches in John's muscles and the occasional soft grunts that made him smile. When he was finished, he ran his hands lightly down John's back and the doctor sighed, then smiled a more genuine smile.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome."

This earned Sherlock a broader smile. He shifted his weight off of his husband and John rolled onto his back, adjusting his position so that he could slip under the blankets. The balcony doors were open and the breeze was cool, now hinting at approaching rain. There wouldn't be a storm – Sherlock smiled slightly at the thought that this would disappoint John.

He put his wedding band back on, stripped off his own clothing and slid in under the covers beside his husband. John rolled onto his left side, pushing a pillow under his shoulder to pad it, and hooked his right leg over Sherlock's left knee. The detective smiled and gave a pleased little huff. John rested his right hand on Sherlock's waist, tightening his fingers for a just a moment to gauge how much weight he'd regained. They stayed silent for a few minutes and Sherlock could feel John's warm breath brushing over the skin on his chest.

"How badly do you want a cigarette?" John asked, his voice no more than a murmur.

"Right now? Not that badly," Sherlock replied. He raised his left hand to weave his fingers into John's light hair and the doctor turned his head enough to press a brief kiss into his palm.

"And most of the time?"

"On a scale of gasping to gritted teeth?" Sherlock asked and felt John's lips twitch into a smile against his skin.

"Is it that bad?"

"Do you suppose Harry ever stopped really wanting a drink when she was sober?"

John sighed softly.

"No. I don't know. How much is the psychological addiction and how much is the physical addiction?"

"Does it matter?"

John was silent for a long moment.

"I suppose not."

He traced an idle pattern on Sherlock's back and the detective felt the vague outline of a 'J' that John was probably not even aware he was making. It made him smile briefly and he pressed a kiss against John's forehead.

"Did it help?"

"Yes."

Sherlock felt John nod slowly at this reply.

"Although it didn't do wonders for my marriage, I must admit." At this, John's lips twitched again. Sherlock pulled back slightly, shaking his head. "Would you have condoned it when Harry started drinking again if she had been doing it to cope with an upset?"

"No, of course not," John answered.

"Then don't you dare give me permission," Sherlock said. "I'm managing right now."

John sighed again then pressed his lips against Sherlock's chest.

"And if you can't manage?"

"Then I'll tell you. That _is_ what you wanted."

John nodded, trailing his fingertips up Sherlock's spine.

"It is," he agreed.

"She didn't like it, either."

"Sorry?" John asked, tilting his head back. Sherlock gave him a slight smile.

"My mother. She didn't like me smoking, either. She refused to let me do it in the house, even in my guest rooms. I was confined to doing so outside and then only on my terrace, nowhere else. She made her displeasure quite clear."

John returned the smile.

"She was good at that," he commented.

"Oh, you have no idea," Sherlock replied dryly. He felt John's smile grow. He settled more fully against Sherlock, wrapping his arm under the detective's shoulder and pressing another kiss into his chest. Sherlock buried his face in John's hair and closed his eyes.

"All right," John said.

They lay quietly for awhile, enjoying the comfortable silence. When the light rain started to fall outside, they got up and dressed and rang down for their tea.


	10. Chapter 10

The following night they went back down to the beach armed with blankets, pillows and two bottles of wine. One of the staff members had even brought them a thick foam pad, smiling knowingly as he delivered it already rolled up and tied. John had been surprised that had one in the house, then he'd realized Sherlock had probably sent someone to buy it.

They'd ended up coming back to the villa the previous night because John's shoulder couldn't handle sleeping in one of the lounge chairs – he doubted his back and neck would be happy with it either. Sherlock had wanted to stay out all night but as much as John liked the idea, he knew it wasn't happening. Not with the set up they had last night. Sherlock had been determined to right this perceived wrong. Now they had what amounted to make-shift bed – and it would probably be more comfortable than some of the beds on which John had slept in Afghanistan. One of the other staff members had been despatched not long before they headed down with a basket of food – a baguette, Brie, Camembert and fruit.

John felt very extravagant doing all of this. He tried to imagine what he would have thought ten years ago if someone had told him he would eventually be taking holidays at a private villa on the Mediterranean and being served by a household full of staff.

He probably would have been surprised just to hear he was going to survive his tour.

He shook his head as they arrived at the cabana and set his bundle down. Sherlock had insisted on carrying the wine with him, so as not to hurt John's shoulder – as if two bottles of wine and a short walk were going to do any damage. But John had conceded and had carried a couple more pillows as compensation. They set to work putting the chairs and low tables aside so they could spread out the foam pad. John fitted a sheet over it and then they put down the blankets and the pillows. He moved one table to each side of the bed as Sherlock closed the canvas curtains so that only the front of the cabana remained open. Then he opened the wine as John sliced the baguette on his small table and fixed them each a plate of bread, cheese and fruit.

"This was a brilliant idea," he said, exchanging one plate for a glass of wine.

"Genius," Sherlock reminded him and John rolled his eyes with a smile. He took a sip of his wine then leaned forward and kissed his husband. He felt Sherlock's tongue dart over his lips, tasting the hint of wine there.

Sherlock settled down, stretched out on his left side, propped on his left elbow. He was facing John, but at enough of an angle where he could see the shore. John sat cross-legged, facing toward the sea as well. They ate in silence, listening to the sound of the surf, watching the moonlit waves crash and break against the sand.

_It's like a picnic_ , John thought, then smiled. A picnic at night on their own private beach on the Mediterranean with a rather good makeshift bed, excellent food that had been prepared and delivered by their own kitchen staff, and two bottles of wine.

_Going soft, Watson_ , he told himself His smile grew – he didn't really mind.

When they finished eating, Sherlock took their plates and set them on the low table next to his side of the bed. John put his wine glass on the cabana's bamboo floor where he could reach it easily later but where it wouldn't be knocked over. He straightened his legs and lay down and Sherlock turned back toward him, bracing his right hand on John's left side, looking down at him. With his face masked in shadows, Sherlock's pale eyes seemed to gleam even more brightly. John grinned and wrapped his hands around the detective's waist – he was up to three and a half pounds now, if John was any judge – and tugged. He pulled Sherlock onto him and his husband lay down, keeping some of his weight on his hand. John laced one hand into Sherlock's hair and pulled him into a kiss.

They made love leisurely, caressing with unhurried, languid movements, enjoying the sound of the waves and the cool salt breeze. Sherlock murmured in his ear, snatches of French phrases that made John shudder – not so much at the words themselves, which he didn't really understand, but the way it changed Sherlock's voice, giving it a deeper rumble. Afterwards, they lay tangled for awhile, their breathing slowing, John tracing his fingers absently up and down Sherlock's spine while the detective ran his thumb down John's left arm then massaged deep circles into his palm.

They pulled apart reluctantly and resettled on their sides, snuggling up to one another again like they would sometimes sleep at home. Sherlock cupped John's right shoulder with his left hand and smiled. John glanced down to see what was amusing and saw the contrast of pale skin against tanned. He smiled too and Sherlock raised his hand to run his fingers into John's hair.

"I rather like you like this," he murmured. "We are going to start coming here more often."

"Are we?" John asked with a smile. Somehow, the thought of Sherlock Holmes taking regular holidays was hard to imagine. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into his husband's palm.

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock replied. "It's not a long trip, John. Long weekends or short holidays will be sufficient. You tan easily and your hair lightens fairly quickly."

John chuckled and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Never reckoned I'd be one of those Londoners who took holidays to sunny destinations."

"You were in Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, not _really_ a holiday so much," John replied. Sherlock grinned and kissed him quickly.

"However, if we're going to come here more often, we really must work on your French. It's abysmal."

John rolled his eyes.

"Thanks," he said.

"Yes, I clearly meant that as a comment on your character," Sherlock replied with a quirk of his lips.

"I'm forty-five," John said. "It's a bit old to learn another language."

Sherlock scowled at him.

"Untrue," he replied. "While it is accurate that language is most easily acquired by young children, adults can also become fluent in a new language. It just requires more effort and complete immersion."

"So you're suggesting we move here now?" John asked. "If we did that, it wouldn't really count as immersion. All the household staff talk to me in English and most of the people in town speak English, too. And besides, I don't see many people aside from you and we spend most of our time shagging, not so much talking."

Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile and he kissed John again, more slowly and deeply this time. The doctor sighed and pressed himself closer to his husband, resting a hand on the curve of Sherlock's lower back, pulling him nearer. Sherlock slid his left leg between John's thighs and the doctor sighed as they pulled apart.

"Besides, you'd get bored here," John murmured.

"Bored of shagging you? Never."

John let his hand drop down to pinch one of Sherlock's ass cheeks, earning a quiet yelp that was half moan.

"Bored with everything else," John said. "You need London, Sherlock. You need the cases and Lestrade and Sam to harass about the cases and Anderson to torment and your brother to face off against and criminals to chase around madly. If that was all gone, I don't think I could keep up with the shagging required to keep you occupied."

John traced his fingers along the base of Sherlock's spine again and felt the detective wiggle a bit, trying to get him to drop his hand lower. In response, he moved up to Sherlock's mid back and was rewarded with an impatient huff.

"Besides, I have a job back home. Patients who need me."

Sherlock huffed again, more loudly this time.

"Boring," he commented.

"I like my job."

"I don't see why you can't quit."

"And just do whatever you want me to do?" John asked, arching an eyebrow. The expression on Sherlock's face told him he was exactly right. "You'd get bored of me if I were around all the time. When I'm not around all the time, you look forward to having me home. It works."

"It's inconvenient."

John grinned and kissed Sherlock again lightly.

" _Je t'aime_ ," the detective said.

"I love you, too," John replied.

"No, say it, John. In French."

"Oh, this is part of my lesson, is it?"

"We should work on phrases you're likely to use."

"Well, I can't imagine I'd use that one on anyone but you. I'd get some pretty weird looks if I went around town saying it to strangers."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Say it," he commanded.

" _Je t'aime_ ," he tried. It sounded wrong and the flash of irritation on Sherlock's face almost made him laugh.

"No, no, no. _Je_. Like the final sound in 'garage'."

" _Je_ ," John repeated.

"Again. The whole thing."

John rolled his eyes.

" _Je t'aime_." It sounded minutely better, but not much. " _Je t'aime._ "

"Hmm… _Je t'aime aussi._ "

John smiled and pressed a kiss against Sherlock's chest. He knew that meant 'I love you, too'.

"What else?" he asked. "How about 'please'?"

" _S'il-vous-plait_."

" _Si-vous-plait._ "

"No, no. Not _si_. _S'il_. It's a contraction of _si_ – if – and _il_ – it – to get _s'il._ A bit like the first syllable in 'silver'."

" _S'il-vous-plait_?"

" _Que-ce que tu veux?"_

"Sorry?"

"You said please. I'm asking what you want."

"Hmm…" John considered. " _Tu_?"

" _Toi_ ," Sherlock corrected.

" _Toi_ , then," John said. He placed another kiss against Sherlock's chest then in the hollow between his collarbones then just above that on his neck. He felt his husband's body respond, pressing closer to him, shifting for more contact.

"You know," he murmured. "The people in Frontignan are going to think I'm coming onto them all the time if I use my limited French on them."

"Mm," Sherlock sighed, arching his neck back to give John access to keep kissing. John let his tongue dart between his lips to taste the detective, too, earning a small, approving sigh. "Then we'll confine your use of French to me."

John smiled slightly and kissed Sherlock's pulse point before sucking on it lightly. The detective moaned softly and the sound stirred desire in John's belly. He did it again, nipping at it gently, making Sherlock moan a little louder. The sound settled lower this time and John shifted impatiently as Sherlock's fingers traced over his stomach.

He rolled his husband onto his back and nudged Sherlock's thighs with his knee. Sherlock spread his legs willingly and John settled between them, feeling his husband's arms wind round his back. He pulled away enough to raise his head and smiled down at the image of Sherlock with his hair already tussled from the last time. John ran his fingers into the curls and Sherlock tilted his head back slightly, bring his face up for a kiss. John leaned down, resting his whole weight on Sherlock's body, pressing them together as much as possible, and leaned down to meet his husband's lips.

* * *

Sherlock awoke the next morning when John slipped back into the cabana in the pre-dawn greyness. They had closed all the curtained walls before going to bed, to keep out insects and curious birds. John dropped the flap back down and Sherlock raked his eyes over his husband's naked form. His body had its own ideas of what it wanted early in the morning and Sherlock smiled.

"Come here," he murmured and John's lips twitched into a smile. He slid under the blankets and settled on his back. Sherlock tossed the blankets aside again, getting a grumble from John. It was chilly, but they would warm up quickly. And he wanted to see John. And touch and kiss every centimetre of him.

He took his time, working John to the edge before backing off, then doing it again and again until John was sweating and shaking and trying to beg between gasps. Sherlock finally let him go, watching as John arched up, head thrown back, a wordless cry escaping his lips. He kissed and licked John clean then crawled back up his husband's body, moaning when John grabbed the lube and slicked him up, unable to keep himself from thrusting into the doctor's hands. John smiled lazily and wrapped one leg around Sherlock's waist and the other around Sherlock's thigh, sighing when Sherlock pushed himself in. Sherlock watched John's face as they moved together, noting all the small shifts in expression until his brain began to shut down and he closed his eyes, shuddering and gasping into John's neck. He felt rather than heard the faint chuckle and John's arms wrapped around him warmly, holding him as he came back down.

They lay in silence for awhile, hands mapping the other's skin absently and lightly, then John stirred a bit, tucking one hand under his head and regarding Sherlock.

"Should I open the curtain?" he asked. "We could watch the sun come up."

"No, leave it," Sherlock replied, burying his face in John's neck. "I like it like this."

"All right," John murmured. He turned his head enough to press a kiss into Sherlock's dishevelled hair. "This was a brilliant idea. Should we do it again tonight?"

"No," Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by John's skin. "I want our bed tonight. We'll use the candles."

At this, John stiffened in surprise then a sharp shudder coursed through him. Sherlock grinned wolfishly – now John had all day to anticipate that. He could tell by the slow, controlled exhalation that John would have taken it right now had it been offered. It would be so much better if he had to wait.

"You know," John said, his voice a little less steady than usual. "When we're home, we'll have to do that in the upstairs bedroom or Mrs. Hudson will probably call the police."

"Mm," Sherlock said. "Her hearing is getting worse, John. She hardly heard us when–" He cut himself off, biting his lower lip and cursing silently.

"When what?" John asked.

Sherlock exhaled hard against John's skin and felt the doctor's fingers weave into his hair, tugging lightly to het him to raise his head. Sherlock ignored the sensation and stayed where he was.

"When we– fought," he said, his jaw tight. "She said she thought she heard us shouting."

John's hand paused in his hair and he tensed a little, then forced himself to relax.

"Oh," he said. He was silent again for a few minutes. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock shook his head once, emphatically.

"No."

"Sherlock–"

" _Not_ here, John," he said forcefully. He closed his eyes, breathing in John's scent, the mixture of sweat and pheromones and warmth that made him think of the way sunshine would smell, if it had a smell. He didn't want to consider the McKinney case at all. Not lying here, having just made love on their private beach. The world could go hang as far as he was concerned. He pushed the thoughts away deliberately but one refused to go. With a sigh, Sherlock raised his head. John was watching him carefully but warmly.

"Mycroft's hearing," Sherlock murmured. John sighed, pursing his lips and Sherlock scowled slightly. That was his Displeased-But-Don't-Want-to-Upset-Sherlock expression. "John," he said with a faint warning tone.

"Probably permanently damaged," John said. "He said it hadn't faded. That's not a good sign. It's possible it could still get better but probably not. The longer it stays, the more likely it is that it's permanent."

"And everything else?"

"Too soon to tell," John said.

Sherlock nodded and John rested a hand on his cheek, then kissed him lightly. Sherlock put a private moratorium on any other thoughts involving the McKinney case. It could be dealt with when they returned to London – in fact, it would have to be, if only because Mycroft would want to speak to them about it. But they had two and a half more days in Frontignan and Sherlock intended to enjoy them.

They settled down again and let the sun rise and the day warm up. Then they packed up the makeshift bed and put the chairs and tables back, leaving the food and wine bottles for the staff to clean up later. They headed back to the house to shower and change and settle on the day's activities.


	11. Chapter 11

They went to the beach a final time on their last day in Frontignan and John tied up the two side walls of the cabana so he could sit in the filtered sun and watch Sherlock swim in the Mediterranean. He'd made Sherlock weigh himself that morning, which had been accompanied by grumbling that he knew how much weight he'd regained. Four pounds in total – John was impressed. He hoped Sherlock could keep it on when they got back to London and he went back to work. Even after all these years, his tendency not to eat when he was working won out far more often than not. John would just have to be diligent – Sherlock wasn't good at paying attention to anything else when he was working and the doctor didn't expect that to change. At least now he thought he had a shot of getting his husband to listen when he put his foot down.

John shook aside those thoughts when he saw Sherlock getting out of the water, wading through the waves as they broke around him. John got up and closed the cabana's side curtains again and saw Sherlock smirk at him from across the sand. He grinned and settled back down on his lounge chair.

Sherlock stepped into the cabana and grabbed a towel, messing up his hair as he dried it off. John grinned at the image of a lean, dripping Sherlock with his mussed hair and the towel now draped around his shoulders. He was wearing those dangerously low swim trunks and John let his eyes trace the view appreciatively. Sherlock smirked at him again and straddled the doctor, settling onto his lap. John took the ends of the towel in his hands and tugged lightly, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. His lips tasted of salt water. John managed to get them turned over and tossed the towel aside. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of the swim trunks and tugged. Sherlock arched obligingly and John pulled the trunks down, throwing them aside as well. Then he kissed and licked everywhere, tasting the sea.

Back at the house, they packed up their suitcases and John checked the dresser and bedside table drawers for anything they may have forgotten. He saw Sherlock rummaging through the desk and looked over curiously. The detective had pulled out two of the emergency candles and was weighing them thoughtfully in his right hand. John swallowed hard and a grin split Sherlock's lips. He looked up, meeting John's gaze with dancing grey eyes.

"Do we have candles back at the flat?" he asked.

"I don't know," John said truthfully. If they did, they were Sherlock's. John kept emergency torches on hand in case the power went out, not candles.

"Well, then," Sherlock murmured and went over to John's suitcase, where he liberated a t-shirt. He rolled the candles carefully into the cotton fabric then put it in his own case. John swallowed hard again, a shudder running through him. Not only did he know they were there, they were wrapped in one of his shirts.

_Not fair_ , he thought. Sherlock crossed the room and put his hands on either side of John's neck, his thumbs resting on the doctor's jaw. With a subtle pressure, he tipped John's face up and leaned down to kiss him.

"I imagine these will be useful," Sherlock murmured, "sometime this weekend."

John exhaled slowly. The twitch of Sherlock's lips told him the detective had picked up on his increased heart rate.

"You're killing me," John groaned quietly. Not only had Sherlock's discovered John's proclivity for candle wax, he'd also discovered in himself a hitherto unknown patience accompanied by a bit of a sadistic streak. John was convinced that Sherlock enjoyed seeing him squirming mentally while he waited.

"Odd, you don't seem opposed to it," Sherlock commented. He gave John another kiss then drew away to finish packing. John made himself continue the search of their bedroom and bathroom but found nothing they'd forgotten.

The car took them back to the airport where the jet was waiting. John wondered if it had been there all week or if it had gone back to London – Edinburgh, actually, he supposed. Mycroft in the Scottish capital staying with Angela and David while he recovered. That had surprised John because he didn't really see Angela as the type to want to nurse someone back to health and nor did he see Mycroft as a man who would endure that well. Not that Mycroft had much choice, but Angela certainly did.

He shook his head to himself as they boarded the aeroplane.

_And people think being with Sherlock must be weird. They don't know the half of it._ I _don't know the half of it._ He glanced at Sherlock. _Bet he doesn't either_. But that was only because Sherlock didn't want to know – if he had any desire for details, he could get them. John found the whole thing bizarre and suspected he was probably better off ignorant when it came to Mycroft's personal relationships.

They settled into their seats and buckled in for take off. It was a short flight, but as soon as they were at their cruising altitude, Sherlock unbuckled and then folded himself around John. John smiled as the detective made them comfortable in his seat, tucking pillows around them and covering their legs with a blanket. They adjusted themselves to accommodate the other and then sat in silence for a few minutes until Sherlock nuzzled his neck and then kissed him. John kissed back and they spent some time exploring each other's mouths. The doctor was aware that the flight attendant was making herself scarce and he chuckled at his own embarrassment over acting like a couple of teenagers making out. He felt his ears grow hot but Sherlock didn't seem to care and certainly didn't stop. At least he had the decency to keep his hands to himself – well, mostly to himself. A cabana that could be closed off was one thing. And it _was_ Mycroft's jet. He didn't want any hidden cameras picking up an unexpected surprise. He doubted Mycroft would appreciate that much, either.

Eventually, Sherlock let him up for air and they were served some light food and drinks. It wasn't long before they were landing at Heathrow and clearing customs. Another driver was there to meet them and John felt a stab of happiness when they were dropped off in front of their flat. It was always good to be home. And now home was somewhere comfortable again – the killer McKinney had hired was gone, all traces of him removed from where they lived. He was Mycroft's problem now and John was more than happy to let him stay that way.

John closed his eyes and inhaled, not caring if he got strange looks from other pedestrians, not caring if Sherlock was chuckling at him. Sherlock unlocked the front door and let them in. John shuffled in behind his husband, manoeuvring around Sherlock and his suitcase in the small space, locking the door again behind him.

"What's that?" he asked when Sherlock put his case down and leaned over to pick up a cellophane-wrapped gift basket that was resting on the stairs. Sherlock turned back toward him, plucking the card from the package, and passed the basket to John. Inside was a bottle of wine, some cheeses, a package of crackers, and a selection of fruit. It reminded him of the meals they'd had on the beach at Frontignan.

"It's from Angela," Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked, looking back up. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and passed John the card.

_I hope you enjoyed your holiday. Your brother would like to see you next weekend if convenient. The jet will be available. Doctor Watson is also welcome. Angela._

John looked up in surprise.

"This is–" he started, then realized there were too many ways to finish that sentence.

"Unexpected?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, a bit," John said. "Will you go?"

"We'll both go," Sherlock said with an assurance that indicated he hadn't even considered that John wouldn't accompany him. John resisted rolling his eyes – he would have gone anyway. He wanted to assess Mycroft's health for himself, and it was probably the only way Sherlock was going to get a straight answer about his brother's injuries and recovery.

"We will, however, stay in a hotel."

John grinned – of course Sherlock would refuse to stay under the same roof as his brother. But he agreed. John couldn't imagine staying with Mycroft and Angela. It would be far too weird.

"I suspect my brother could learn a great deal from Angela," the detective commented.

"What do you mean?" John asked. "Let's get upstairs."

John tucked the basket under one arm and picked up his suitcase again. Sherlock did the same and led the way up the stairs.

"Her methods are far more civil than being rounded up in a mysterious black car at all hours. As such, I'm much more inclined to honour her requests. There is a lesson on here for Mycroft, although I suspect he will refuse to learn it."

John grinned at his husband's back. While he agreed with Sherlock that Angela's methods were better, he doubted that Sherlock's willingness to accommodate her were based solely on that. It probably had more to do with the fact that she wasn't Mycroft.

Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat and John followed him inside. He set the basket down on the coffee table and his suitcase on the floor next to it as Sherlock locked the door behind them. John looked around and grinned.

It was good to be home.


End file.
